


The Horde of Children

by Sam_Seven



Series: Familiar Face [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (I mean of course there's sex: it's about Gavin and his future boyfriend), (like really slow burn), Bittersweet, But Gavin doesn't care and changes it sometimes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First story for a trilogy, Hank has committed suicide, It's like totally canon but I changed a few things about the lore, M/M, Machine!Connor is deactivated, Own translation from French, Post-Pacifist Sad Ending (Detroit: Become Human), RK900's name is Conrad, Slow Burn, Thriller, Violence, after he has ended Markus' peaceful protest, but telling you would be spoilers, detective fiction, i forgot to add, really sensitives subjects, soft and fluffy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-11 11:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15971267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven
Summary: Ten months after the peaceful revolution, interrupted by RK800 Connor, Detroit residents are no longer so keen on owning domestic robots, abandoning them, unknowingly, to appalling fates. The police station still mourns the death of Lieutenant Anderson and the RK900 is not well received, sharing the same face with the responsible now deactivated. But a new and much bigger affair will bury these resentments.Moodboard on TumblrFrench version hereRussian version here(many thanks to Poof ♥)





	1. Familiar face

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [La Horde des enfants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961286) by [Sam_Seven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven). 



> I always liked thrillers a bit murky. The relationship between the RK900 and Gavin Reed can fit perfectly into this literary genre so it's both a romantic and a thriller fiction, which involves an investigation that broaches really sensitive topics, and exposing them might put you on the way then I keep them in silence. In any case: I won't write anything too explicit about the dark sides of the investigation, if however you really want to read but fear to be shocked by the subject that I keep secret, don't hesitate to contact me, I may give the answer.
> 
> I intend to make a trilogy on this couple: three fics for three different surveys with a relationship that will evolve throughout. So this first fic is like a first book.
> 
> I'm French and I translate my own fanfiction myself. So some sentences may sound odd since I don't have any beta-reader, I'll try to keep the French and English writing at the same pace.
> 
> I know some readers might be annoyed that RK900's name isn't Richard, but let me give you two reasons since I write in French first : the pun "Dick" doesn't work in the original version and Richard doesn't sound that sexy for French speakers, in fact, it sounds quite old. Oh yeah, let me give another reason: I'm going to play with the similarities, Connor and Richard have nothing in common, Connor/Conrad are closer. You'll understand why that point is important for me if you read.
> 
> Enjoy~

The sheets smelled of sweat. The sensual one that slipped between the breasts of a woman and cooled on a skin still burning with orgasms. The night had witnessed the most animal attitudes, but the morning was now drifting into Detroit, ending the nightly passions.

Gavin Reed cursed after a loud sneeze, barely awake. He was so fine there, just lying on that mattress marked by the imprint of his back since fifteen years. A calm morning of September and he could take his time. But he needed a pinch of motivation to get up: his bedroom needed to be ventilated. Technology had invented the electric shutters but it still needed an Android to open the window or do it yourself.

Gavin did not want to think about androids anymore: Detroit was celebrating the tenth month since the machine revolution. Although peacefully conducted, the blue and red blood had run on the snow and, while some had rallied to the cause of humanoid robots, many had given up adopting an AX400, an AP700 or a BL100, either out of distrust or altruism. The era of insensitive technology had come to an end, opening on a questioning period to screw the strongest beliefs up. Like those who had rejected heliocentrism in the past, a majority denied this new form of life, preferring to consider androids as objects to reassure themselves in their old habits. But a new Renaissance had begun, despite Gavin Reed’s stubborn belief that they were just machines. Once the shutters pushed, the man was glad to see fewer robots in the street: from the window, he could see five humans in their morning routine and only a robot, docile and peaceful with its empty shopping bag in hand.

The bed in the bedroom was also empty and Gavin thought for a moment that Fathia had already left. The lady of the night sometimes disappeared before the first light, running from the day, renouncing a world to which she did not belong. But while putting on a pajama, Gavin noticed the young woman’s leather jacket still folded on the back of a chair. There was also the black skirt and the apricot tank top, still there after he had removed them from her before going to bed.

Coming in the kitchen to prepare his coffee, Gavin saw his guest sitting at the table. The sidewalk rose was still naked, as if the clothes has never concerned her.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Did you sleep well?”

He nodded. Judging by her swollen face, she had not been awake since a long time.

Her figure seemed modeled by scissors and the blades in their path, a long time ago, had slashed her skin. On her forearms, on her thighs, the marks left by the kisses were old but still puffed up. Gavin had already asked her if she had kept these bad habits but she answered she did not, and indeed: no trace had appeared since he had seen her naked the first time. On the other hand, he did not understand how the young woman was able to expose them, indifferent to the glances that slipped on them.

“Can’t you put something on?”

“I’m fine, it’s warm in your apartment.”

He settled in front of her. The black fringe weighed heavily on her huge doe eyes, darkening her olive skin. In silence, the coffee on the edge of his lips, Gavin began to enumerate the freckles that flecked her nose. As a modern witch, she wore on her nails dark purple, the ancient color of mourning though she had no one to cry. Her fingers were crossed on the warm surface of the cup, feeling the comforting warmth before swallowing a sip of coffee that always seemed less bitter during hazy mornings.

“You lost weight.”

Her observation snatched a groan from Gavin. He could not contradict her.

“A shame. I liked your little belly.”

“I had to be careful, anyway. At least I’ve some margin now.”

He glanced at the calendar to remember the day: September 6th. If Lieutenant Anderson had not committed suicide last November, the police station would have celebrated the fifty-fourth birthday of this grumpy man. Gavin Reed had been more affected by Hank’s death than he would have thought: he had stayed when some of his colleagues had gone into depression or had done everything to be transferred, but the shock had not passed within the team. And the memory of the RK800 still awakened an unappeasable anger: it was the fault of this machine if Hank had pressed the trigger.

That plastic bastard. Gavin should have turned it off with a bullet in his thirium pump right from the start.

Fathia pulled him from his thoughts, suddenly asking:

“Hey. Do you know if there’re any rights for androids?”

“What do you mean by ‘rights’?”

“Laws that protect them. With all that happened, I wondered if these things had changed.”

“No,” his answer sounded like an icy chopper, “and certainly not after all that happened.”

Fathia did not insist. She knew of course the dislike of the detective for androids but her heart was weighed down by a secret she would have liked to share without daring to venture on this ground.

They were not together. Fathia was a prostitute in police contact, a sort of a fink, offering witness statements or information when they needed it, leaving her alone with her harmless solicitation. Their little carnal nights were secrets of corridors, but no love pulsed in their affectionate embraces. Fathia greatly appreciated Gavin despite his attitude sometimes infective, able to separate his flaws and his qualities. On the pillow, he had shared with her memories and in the dark, he had agreed to reveal his wounds so she could heal them. Since then, her tenderness had risen like a golden sea and Gavin bathed there as often as possible. Human beings are always thirsty for affection.

And she left a bit of her soul in this gray room, in this kitchen that smelled of coffee, remaining because, surprisingly, Gavin had always comforted her, making her laugh with his casual answers, reassuring her with his strong character. “They can go fuck themselves” was his answer to all the social problems: boring customers, shabby parents, aggressive brother, heavy looks, they can all go fuck themselves, and this modern wisdom made her laugh. When her throat unfurled, the young woman had the feeling that her worries were exorcised in her hilarious bursts.

Yes, in a way, she had left a little of her here, even adopted by Gnocchi, Gavin’s cat, a huge Norwegian, despite his young age, with a tiger robe quite common but fluffy and long. The tomcat finally left the sofa from the living room and came to eat in his bowl already full. If the detective did not have children, he took care of his tiger with paternal affection, despite the stupid name he had given him.

“You enjoy yourself, Gnocchi?” Fathia leaned forward and her fingers slipped into this wild coat, triggering the purring machine. “He didn’t lose his little paunch.”

“With all the grub he devours, no risk.”

The lady of the night lifted the cat from the ground and set him on her knees that were too small for this mass of tenderness. Lying like a baby on the thighs, Gnocchi allowed himself to be satisfied as the happiest of princes, leaving the human scratching his barrel-shaped belly.

“Do you want me to come back tonight?”

“Only if you want to. I’m finishing late today anyway, so don’t come before midnight.”

“I’ll tell you about nine o’clock if I’ve much work.”

In the sector of the world’s oldest profession, humans had competition with androids, but the success of the machines had dropped and Fathia was returning to a very lucrative work pace. The Eden Club had lost almost a third of its clientele and while last year the owner boasted about business discretion, he had to install cameras in some rooms to make sure that no deviant would attack a regular.

Fathia stretched her long legs, thin as matches, and stood up, rinsing her cup in the sink. The steel gleams tried to cover her nakedness with their coldness, increasing the contrast of her tattooed skin, but despite her fragile silhouette, she shined with a unique energy and attracted Gavin’s admiration. He knew that their relationship counted as a malpractice, but the detached affection she bore him, the two dark lakes she had for eyes, that ethereal tranquility in this crazy world were too precious for him to pass on. If they were not in love, they were close friends.

“I’m going to take a shower, you mind?”

“No, you can go, I start in three hours anyways.”

Some business recovered on the way and she disappeared behind the door. He heard her singing under the shower and the water attenuated the clumsy notes.

Yes, their relationship was a malpractice, but since Lieutenant Anderson’s suicide, Gavin needed to take refuge in those spindly, fragile but strong arms. Fathia was a night ghost, a futuristic witch, a creature who made him forget how ugly the world had become.

He did not love her as one does with a lover, but she was dear to him in a certain way.

 

Before leaving his apartment, Fathia had wished him a good day. Without kissing, without hugging, but with that tired smile that made her so ephemeral, like a nocturnal fairy who goes out at the same time as the stars.

She was human, with her imperfections but, according to Gavin, she had a charm she got from fantasy orient, an aura that androids could never have. Despite the efforts of CyberLife, robots lacked naturalness and especially heat: humanoid computers could not feel, so they could not express affection. And it was with sweetness that she had wished him a good day, a touch of attention that a machine could not reproduce.

But this sincere sentence was going to get stuck under the detective’s skull to resonate and haunt him until the evening. When he arrived at the police station, the detective came across some colleagues together. Their arms crossed and their brows frowning betrayed a feeling of anger.

“What’s happening? You all look like death warmed up.”

“Don’t try to be a smartass, Gavin, you don’t know the news yet.”

A policeman pointed to Captain Fowler’s office. These large glass surfaces as walls served a misplaced indiscretion: their captain could not clean his nose or spill his coffee without being watched by his entire team. Just like he could not argue with a CyberLife agent without being targeted by the dark looks from his men, eyes slipping heavily on an android who stood behind the technician.

“What the fucking—”

In a few strides, Gavin moved to have a better view, recognizing the short cut hair, the brown lock that fell negligently and the strong jaw. Followed by a colleague, he heard her say:

“The day of Hank’s birthday, can you believe that? I’m sure these sons of a bitch purposely sent us their new prototype today.”

It was Connor. Without a doubt, it was him.

“I thought they had disabled it?”

“For a few months of work? No, they surely improved it and sent it back again.”

“Improve? Like he won’t push anyone to suicide anymore?”

This humor covered anger still vibrant. The RK800 had only blue blood on its hands, but many were convinced that Hank’s brain had spread in his kitchen because of this android. Of course, everyone knew: Lieutenant Anderson had suicidal tendencies since the death of his boy, but the deviant case had motivated the old man, pushing him on the road to recovery, and he had teamed up with the RK800, the latest wonder of CyberLife. Five days later, he had planted the ultimate bullet in his temple. The short time was obvious for the team. Many police officers had not digested this conflict, feeling both sadness and anger for their once brilliant lieutenant.

Judging by Fowler’s scowl, the presence of the android did not make him happy either, but he seemed unable to contradict the technician. When the man raised a hand toward the captain, Fowler pretended not to see him and left his chair, turning away.

As CyberLife’s envoy was leaving, Fowler asked his men to come together to greet their new ‘colleague’. When Connor placed himself respectfully behind the captain, Gavin noticed a detail: the brown eyes of the android were of an icy gray. Where did this physical change come from?

“— I couldn’t refuse. In spite of everything that has happened, CyberLife continues to have some power and intends to establish itself in the police. So here’s their latest prototype: the RK900. Like the previous model, I had to assign it to someone,” Fowler pointed to Lieutenant White and added firmly, “I’ve assigned it to you, Aubrey. Sorry.”

The lieutenant had just become livid, already sick with the idea of being assisted by the machine. The android walked down the steps, hands crossed behind his back and presented himself in front of his new partner.

“Hello, Lieutenant White, I’m Conrad. I have been designed to assist you in your work.”

CyberLife even used a similar name, associating it with an identical voice. The face was also the same, except that piercing look like a December breeze. It was a really bad joke. All of a sudden, Gavin remembered what Fathia had told him this morning. This ‘good day’ had just taken on an ironic and bitter meaning.

 

The rain began to fall, carrying in its fall the brown leaves, announcing a wet and sad autumn.

Early, winter had already rushed into the police station, pushing men to keep their arms crossed and head back between the shoulders. The hot drinks were drunk in austere silence, heavy as a snowy sky. Lieutenant White did not know if the RK900 was feeling the hate that tried to stab him or was unaware of it. Like the RK800, this new model was cold calm, imperturbable like a stone sentinel.

Under the glance of her colleagues, Aubrey White was trying to focus, the RK900 sitting right beside her. He had spent a whole hour standing behind her, before the woman cracked and asked him to sit down and remove that white jacket to look more _normal_.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I hope you will forgive me for this misconduct: my sociability program is still processing.”

Gavin had burst out laughing: a year later, the latest prototype CyberLife had the same offbeat expressions and he stank of the same automatic politeness as its predecessor. And the detective knew where those smooth manners had led Lieutenant Anderson.

The detective had spent the afternoon imagining low blows without applying them: the registration form for the sergeant grade had been online since that day and he had coveted it long enough to manage to ignore the RK900. The presence of the robot did not change his plans and Reed postulated for the next rank, judging that the plate “Detective” had enough dust on his desk.

The years passed and the paperwork remained the same: he had been in the Detroit police for nine years and the software was still asking for his date of birth. His fingers tapped on the tactile keyboard with sustained speed, accustomed to the same eternal questions. At least, the forms no longer asked for the sexuality of their employee. He remembered that Tina Chen had written ‘pedophile’ a few years ago, just to annoy the administration. At this memory, he began to sneer.

“Hi.”

Gavin looked up. Precisely, it was officer Chen. Her colleague was coming back from patrol and could finally blew, but before getting a cup of cappuccino, she had settled on the edge of the detective’s office to discuss quickly.

“I suppose you’ve already met the android?”

“Just the general presentation: since the technician is gone, it sticks to its new leader like glue.”

“Lieutenant White?”

“Yeah.”

Tina Chen glanced at the unfortunate one’s desk. Aubrey White was a confident woman, deserving her lieutenant grade because of her composure, however the RK900 seemed to weigh on her shoulders. The profile of the android brought the officer few months back, at a time still carefree where the robots were docile, this period of calm before the storm caused by what was called Markus and the terror that Connor had thrown within the team.

“I was already suspicious about CyberLife, but hey, they’ve exactly the same face. The new and the old one, don’t you think it’s done on purpose too?”

“That or they are big slackers. Maybe it was created by other androids that recycle what little they know,” Gavin replied, still completing the form line-by-line. With an icy aplomb, he added, “but I’ll always be suspicious of these machines and this company.”

“Wait and see, like we say.”

“And see if this tin can survives.”

Tina shook her head without hiding her laugh. If she did not harbor any rancor against machines last year, it was different today. What was CyberLife thinking about by sending them a new android?

Concentrated on work, Conrad did not give them the slightest attention. His mission was very simple: integrating and doing the same job as a police officer, maybe even better? What had happened with its predecessor did not concern it.

 

At the end of the day, Lieutenant White felt tremendous relief at going home and leaving the android behind. He weighed like a curse, a human-shaped plague. She knew she was influenced by bad memories, but she could not help wondering if in five days she would still be sane.

“I wish you a good evening, Lieutenant. See you tomorrow.”

“Nine o’clock without fault.”

The woman grabbed her purse and left the android. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening and several policemen had returned to rest, a concept unknown to Conrad who knew it was an exclusively human necessity. Its own battery could last three months, leaving it a greater autonomy than other androids that must recharge every month.

Still sitting at the office, the RK900 was inspecting the surroundings, spotting its marks. There was the staff room where its new colleagues drank their coffee, still the cafeteria was further away. The android had no need to go there. That way, the corridor led to the cells, which numbered six, it counted them. Conrad had of course recorded where Captain Fowler’s office was, its lieutenant’s office, the others were very secondary, plus the names were on them. It heard ringtones from cell phones, as landlines no longer exist, discussions of unknown subjects.

Conrad thought that the evening would finally be quiet, but it was wrong and the android was going to meet curious samples of humanity, especially with such a function.

Around ten o’clock, as Gavin’s day was nearly over, a patrol had brought back a regular from the sobering cell. A certain Florent Le Dantec, blond like the beer he loved so much and capable of giving headaches similar to those of a hangover. The drunkard bawled with a French accent until the detective got up.

“Florent, don’t start: you go to your cell in silence.”

“Ah! If detective _Reed du cul_ (1) gives an order, you must obey him!”

Gavin had never understood this joke, though often repeated by Le Dantec, and he had never asked for the translation to avoid being ridiculed, somehow, he was the only one whose threats managed to calm the drunkard. The RK900 got up and approached, on the lookout for the first violent movement as against an animal.

Once on the other side of the window, the Frenchman dropped on the bed with such brutality it seemed he wanted to break it. Gavin started to walk away, but the drunk man began to sing again, so he slammed the window with his fist.

“You came to the United States without being able to understand English? Shut up.”

“You told me to enter in silence!”

But the inmate lowered his head, realizing that the detective was not in the mood to laugh. Arms crossed, Gavin sniffed a blow before throwing:

“I can smell wine from here, Florent.”

“Wine! Wine!” The man rose, one hand on his chest, offended. “In my country, monsieur, we drink chouchen!”

“I don’t know your shit, sorry.”

And finally, he turned his back to return to his office. Gavin noticed that the android had got up to approach, analyzing Florent.

“What are you doing here? Go put yourself in sleep somewhere, you’ll be useless tonight.”

“I don’t need to be on standby, detective Reed, and I wanted to help you in case the situation escalated.”

“I’ll tell you again so you can record well, Playmobil: you won’t be needed tonight. If Lieutenant White isn’t here, you sit in a corner and wait she came back.”

The RK900 quickly realized that detective Reed was hostile to it. It quickly inspected the individual, noting his three-day-old beard, the scar that barred the bridge of his nose, the dark circles under his gray eyes, and the stiffness over his shoulders. A glance at his fingers and the android realized that Gavin Reed was a smoker who was trying to slow down his smoking. Humans who were trying to slow down smoking were often irascible and Conrad put this mood wing on this difficult resolution.

“I just wanted to help you, Detective, to apprehend an unpredictable individual.”

“Florent? He’s a regular, it’s the same show every week.” Gavin started to overtake the machine. “For your two marbles that serve as eyes, we’re only piles of meat, but we figured out pretty fucking well before your arrival, we will also figure out pretty fucking well after.”

Impassive, Conrad observed his interlocutor and tried to coax him:

“Do you want a cigarette, detective?”

Gavin almost suffocated:

“I want you to get out of my face. Move!”

Stoic, Conrad decided to obey the man, returning to its place. Somehow, it thought it was a boon that Lieutenant White was more serene, despite the signs of fear it had perceived without understanding them.

 

The next day, Captain Fowler hung up and was about to swing his phone across the office. These screens were deemed indestructible but he did not dare to check those advertising slogans. His lieutenant, Aubrey White, had seen a psychologist and obtained a sick leave for depression. He had heard this excuse so often for ten months that the old man thought that it would be him who should consult soon.

In the space of a few hours, the reasons for Lieutenant White’s absence were known and already, the attention was on the orphaned RK900. Fist under his chin, Gavin stared at the android standing in the captain’s office and thinking of the form he had filled the day before. Yes, he wanted the rank of sergeant and was going to prove to Fowler that he deserved it.

He got up and walked to the glass door, knocking to ask permission to enter. With a gesture of the arm, his superior invited him to come and sit down.

“I’m sorry to hear what happened to Lieutenant White, Captain.”

“Me too, she puts me in the shit. Depression, my ass!”

Fowler apologized half-heartedly: he had always been an angry person, unable to control the words that crossed his lips when he felt his guts boiling and his skull flare up. He did not believe for a moment the depression of his lieutenant: Aubrey White was just afraid to come back to work with the RK900.

“You know it as well: nobody wants this machine. Especially not after what happened with the old one,” difficult to refute the detective, so Captain Fowler kept listening. “And I’m willing to volunteer to work with that.”

“You? Gavin? You volunteer to work with the android?”

“Absolutely.”

Dubious, the captain looked in turn at Conrad and Gavin. He was not sure that was the right decision, especially since he was unaware of the detective’s intentions when he remembered seeing Reed’s name among the candidates for the rank of sergeant. If Gavin wanted to prove himself with the RK900, Fowler would not stop him: it was a service that was not selfless, but it was a service anyway.

“Ok, Gavin, if that’s what you want”. Fowler then addressed the impassive RK900: “From now, you team up with detective Gavin Reed.”

The LED went yellow for a moment, indicating that the machine was processing the information. When Gavin got up to go out, Conrad was on his way.

“Come on, Connor.”

“Detective, I must inform you that Connor was the name of the previous model, I’m the model RK900 and I was named Conrad.”

But its new partner did not listen to it anymore. Conrad could not understand why but Gavin Reed smirked and winked at Officer Chen.

* * *

(1) The joke will be translated later.

 


	2. First sweetness

It had been two hours since it was there and the door was still closed.

There was no locking system, no keypad: it was just a simple wooden door, and Conrad could force the handle, something was still blocking access to the other side. It must have been three centimeters thick, only pine, a panel that could have broken with its fists but as long as there was no danger, the RK900 was not allowed to destroy anything.

Surrounded by archives, relics of old years, Conrad was thinking. It had sent messages to Detective Reed’s computer but of course his partner had not come. Standing, it began to analyze the surroundings: the narrow room contained many boxes that kept complete records of business dating since 1970, sorted on metal shelves or directly on the floor. But the only door was in front of it and it was closed.

Officer Chen had pretended that the handwritten data had to be entered into the computer database, a project that had been repeatedly postponed and, as things were quiet for the moment, Gavin had asked the android to help her colleague. By the time it had seized a box, she had turned and now, it was stuck in this situation.

If Officer Chen or Detective Reed do not came back and check, Conrad was not sure another officer would come and help it. At least, it had about two hundred and sixty hours of battery left.

All of a sudden, Conrad heard a noise on the other side and the door opened on a PM700, one of the models which took care of the secondary duties at the police station. Dressed in a policeman’s uniform, the female-shaped android gave the RK900 a brief gaze and headed for one of the boxes, 1992 written on it with a felt-tip marker. Finally free, Conrad did not hesitate to leave, then it noticed the presence of a chair outside: a joke as stupid as old. But the Android’s LED kept its blue shades and Conrad felt no sense of anger.

Straight, the RK900 was crossing the hallway, heading for the detective’s office. But it did not settle down right away. Hands crossed in the back, the android looked at its partner, frowning.

“Detective, I sent you messages.”

“Why?”

Gavin was focused on his cell phone, scrolling through the news-feed. The RK900 looked around it but Officer Chen was no longer there.

“Because I was locked in the premises.”

Its response made him laugh, therefore he finally raised his eyes with an affected pout:

“Really? I saw nothing, sorry. But well, you haven’t missed anything, don’t worry.”

“It isn’t about missing something or not, detective, but you have to let me fulfill my duties.”

“What duties? You can stay in this premises for five years anyway, you’ll never be useful for anything. I don’t need you.”

“So why did you ask to work with me?”

The detective was not laughing anymore. His jaw clenched, just like his fists, ready to hit.

“So you can suffer as much as possible. You’re going to have a fucking hard time, tin can.”

The tin can rested its hands on the edge of the desk:

“I’m an android, detective, that means I’ll never hurt a human being, but I can defend myself if necessary. So let me work.”

“No,” Gavin regained a carnivorous smile, “it would be too easy and obvious to damage you. I’m just going to piss you off so much, your program will become degenerate and CyberLife will call you back to destroy you. They always do that with their failures.”

“Do you often treat your colleagues this way?”

“You’re a machine, I’ve no qualms to get you locked up again in a premises if it leads you to be dismantled piece by piece.”

Always leaning towards the human being, the android preferred to ignore this little game: to reason its partner was the best solution for the moment.

“It’s true, detective: I’m just a machine, so why do you hurl yourself at it? You could simply ignore me as you ignore the coffee machine when you aren’t thirsty.”

“I don’t mind the coffee machine since it never tried to kill anyone.” Conrad tried to understand this hint of sarcasm, but could not. “Your predecessor was a major-league asshole, and if we had reacted right away, we would have avoided a lot of shit. So now, I take the lead.”

Upon these words, the detective got up and headed for the staff room. The RK900 straightened up and, far from being worried by Gavin’s threats, thought about the hints that escaped it.

 

Since it was Gavin’s teammate, the RK900 was still trying to glean information about this curious human, giving data to its social program. And thanks to a bad habit, which was letting his cellphone lying around, the detective was unknowingly exposing the screen saturated with notifications to the analyzes of the android. Amsung, the streaming platform, regularly informed the user of the latest hits in crime movies and series, and thrillers, the detective’s job stretching even further into his personal life. Conrad also saw which music Gavin was listening to when he had his headphones and turned his back on it. Nowadays, the _Poets of the Fall_ ’s 30-year-old album was on loop, perhaps to match the season. One day, according to the pedometer, the RK900 had deduced that the police officer was getting back into running, a detail that may coincide with the restrictions with his smoking habits.

It noted as well the presence of Norwegian hairs on its colleague’s clothes, just like his taste for coffee associated with chaotic eating habits. Comparing with photos from two years ago, the android realized that Gavin was once a bit more sturdy, while today he was skinny. Since it had a program with altruistic codes, the RK900 reminded the detective to eat, but each time, the answer was the same: “fuck off”.

Despite the information gathered and the profile defined, four weeks passed and the smallest approach always failed, any conversation started collided with great hostility. Worse: the conflicts were growing. Gavin Reed did not hurt it, he did not do anything violent or too obvious, but he was mainly trying to slow down the RK900 and put it away, literally and figuratively, in a closet. Simple machine, Conrad could only call him to order.

The days passed and the social program of the android became more and more obsolete. In fact, Gavin was not the only one to be so cold: all the other police officers showed the same animosity towards it. Conrad knew that the presence of androids could be uncomfortable for humans, but it went well beyond that: this rancor was aimed at _it_ , because of its face and its name, similar with Connor. Yet this hate did not cause it any harm: even if Gavin tried to tear its arm apart, the RK900 would not feel the slightest pain.

Conrad had seen Florent le Dantec again, hearing the smutty songs of a country he had never visited. Quiet, the android never attracted the drunkard’s attention and, obeying Reed’s orders, it let the detective intimidate this regular. In addition to Florent, the RK900 had met other well known visitors who shared Detroit’s day-to-day lives, such as the couple who was always been arguing, and the death threats followed the declarations of love once they were in cell. There was also this old lady, a certain Mrs. Carlson, who maintained that a police officer had been brutal with her but her description did not correspond to any agent, so she left before coming back three days later, certifying that she had never been to this police station.

In this tense and tiring atmosphere, the police officers formed a tight team, especially since the death of one of them. They used to joke, offered coffee, remembered that they were present for each other under the distant gaze of the android. In the meantime, it social program was rusting—

 

A few weeks ago, Conrad would have asked the detective what he had planned for his birthday, but it just kept quiet. Gavin would be turning thirty-seven the next day and he had no intention of staying in Detroit for the event, so he had took his Friday off to go to Milwaukee and see his family. The RK900 knew it thanks to the conversations slipping around him.

And when Gavin rose, greeting his colleagues who wished him a pleasant weekend, the machine just addressed a polite good-bye to the policeman with an automatism, a plain reflex, continuing to examine the reports of the vagaries of the city.

A little later, Officer Chen arrived breathless and looked at his friend’s empty office.

“Gavin has already leave?”

Ah, finally a word that did not include a withdrawal order. More machine than ever, sitting at the next desk and looking at the screen of records, The RK900 gave a succinct answer:

“Detective Reed left eight minutes ago.”

“Shit.”

Alone and facing the RK900, Tina hesitated. The android could have asked her why she was looking for her colleague, but it just stared at her, waiting for the officer to speak. It no longer launched any initiative to open any hostility. Obsessed with its machine condition, the police had forgotten that the RK900, like its predecessor, had been endowed with expressions, but it no longer used them. Maybe the officer became aware of it now, facing those hard-to-support steel eyes. It was not so much the color, it was their hardness and lack of emotion. It was so funny to make fun of the android at first, but it kept an admirable coolness that made it hateful. Tina was still wondering why this plastic automaton had exactly the same face as the last one. Was it Connor under another identity? Did the machines only have an identity?

She shook her head quickly and crossed her arms, unable to support those gray eyes. It must have been a talent reserved for Gavin.

“Something has happened on Gratiot Avenue. A complicated car accident, the on-site team needs a detective to supervise and Fowler asked me to warn him—”

“When did Captain Fowler warn you?”

Its question vexed the officer who turned livid.

In fact, the RK900 was not blaming her: it was six forty-three in the afternoon and the android saw on the detective’s cell phone he had reserved for a movie, a remake of Se7en, which would start at eight o’clock. The film lasted exactly two hours and fourteen minutes. The android needed to establish when the accident was reported and whether he could detain the detective, or Gavin would not be notified in time.

“A quarter of an hour ago.”

The android stood up: Gavin came to work by car so it could not catch him up.

Officer Chen did not give the slightest details, but dealing with car accidents was not part of the detective’s duties, either the RK900’s ones, which was originally supposed to be assigned to a lieutenant. If a detective was asked, then it was not just an unfortunate story.

On its way, after entering the address of the detective on the GPS available in the vehicle, the android remembered a detail: the reservation concerned two places. The detective had no alliance, or even the imprint of an old marriage on the ring finger. The RK900 simply thought his teammate was seeing someone. Spoiling a duo evening was not a problem: the mission was more important and as soon as a job came up, the RK900 took care of it.

The days were much shorter, inviting to sleep and to exile into sweet tranquility, far from the artificial suns that illuminated Detroit after dusk. After inventing fire to repel the terrifying shadows of the night, humanity needed flamboyant lamps, mesmerizing neon lights, billboards as tall as buildings, personalizing the world with these living glimmers which were slipping over the stoic face of the android. If Connor’s eyes were warm, Conrad’s were ice-cold, limpid enough to accommodate blues, pinks and purples shades from the crowded streets despite the autumn breeze. And none of those bright colors lit up a spark of life. The machine did not feel anything and it was a good thing: a colleague who had suffered so much bullying would have returned home while caressing the dream of being transferred. But the RK900 had no apprehension or nervousness, and when the taxi parked on the sidewalk shriveled by the building where the detective lived, it was determined to drag Reed around and know the details of this accident.

The apartment of its teammate was on the fifth floor. A modest height compared to the one the android remembered when the mechanisms of its program were launched. From the forty-first floor of the CyberLife Tower, the RK900 had a breathtaking view of the city it was going to serve; the huge towers measuring themselves to its big projects. Finally, the best prototype had fallen very low: the lieutenant was on sick leave, forcing it to work with a detective, a police officer with two ranks less, and rather than overhanging Detroit, he wandered in the arteries of the capital of android technology.

Its finger pressed the square button next to a small black screen where digital letters wrote “G. Reed”. The android heard the ringing on the other side and waited until the door opened on a young woman with doe eyes.

“Yes?”

Fathia El Harbi, born May 2, 2009 in Detroit, arrested six times for active solicitation between 2028 and 2036, became an informer for the Detroit police in January 2038.

The RK900 did not understand why it met this prostitute at its colleague’s home and, without forgetting to introduce itself, it elaborated some theories that it could confirm later:

“My name is Conrad, I’m the android working with Detective Reed. Is he at home?”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Fathia,” the young woman held out her hand, so Conrad shook it, obeying the rules of politeness. “He’s taking a shower, but you can wait in the living room.”

Her lips, faded roses, drew a quiet smile, even engaging when she stepped aside to invite it. The android then crossed the threshold and heard the sound of water from his left, at the end of a corridor. Before entering the living room, it glanced at Fathia’s clothes. Plum jeans and a thick black sweater to protect herself from the first caresses of October. Her hair smelled of lilac and her eyelids were covered by a golden gloss. It was the only makeup she was wearing, but Conrad knew right away that she was ready to go out, especially since her coat and purse were on a small piece of furniture in the hallway. She was the second reservation.

As it stood in the middle of the living room, between the couch and a TV stand, unsure of where to stand, Fathia sat on the armrest of an old chair, hands clasped and fingers entwined. She looked at it with curiosity but without staring.

“Something happened?”

“Yes.”

“May I know?”

“No.”

Like a child, she nodded, understanding. Conrad expected her to get up and warn Gavin, or to go for another occupation, just like the cat was circulating from one point to another, focused on his own priorities, which were summed up to eat, sleep and observe.

Instead of flight, Fathia continued to detail it with curious kindness. The living room lamp carved the profiles, mimicking the rays of dawn to dig cheekbones, cheeks and play with shadows. Suddenly, Fathia observed:

“Your eyes are very beautiful.”

It was the first time Conrad had heard a compliment on its person. Its LED let out a yellow flash, a curious sign, and it inclined its head slightly:

“Thank you, miss El Harbi, my developers have applied themselves on my appearance and will be delighted to know that they have chosen a beautiful shade for my eyes.”

The flattery was secondary to the RK900, since it was mainly a reward for the technicians who had taken care of its appearance. The lips of the android tried to stretch to make a smile, readmitting an expression slow to start. Simple mimicry. Or maybe a thank you for this first sweetness he discovered.

It was seven four when Gavin entered in his living room, his hair still wet, and spat his first insult to Connor’s face, which was now Conrad’s.

“What are you doing here? Your place is at the police station, not in my home!”

“I’m sorry, detective, but Captain Fowler needs you on Gratiot Avenue. There was a car accident around half-past six.”

“A car accident? Do you think it’s part of my job to take care of bumper cars?”

The RK900 was expecting this response and quickly stated that curious details required the presence of a police officer more senior than those already on place. Gavin glanced at Fathia: he had not planned anything else besides a good time for tonight. Shit, he has his week-end free!

“That bastard.” Conrad thought the insult aimed at it, but Gavin was speaking to his guest. “Do you remember when I said I was applying for the rank of sergeant? I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose. If I don’t go, I won’t have it, if I go, he’ll ask me for other tasks, this grade as a carrot.”

“Then you have to go.” Crossing his arms, he greeted this advice with a scowl. “Gavin, half the people of Detroit are unemployed. You’ve a good place and you’ve the chance to be promoted. We can go to the next session.”

 

Fathia had to stay in the detective’s car. On the dashboard, the time indicated that it was seven twenty-two: the time was not against them and the young woman, quiet, watched the duo went towards the scene of the accident.

The road had been blocked and some vehicles had already been moved.

“So, what’s going on?”

There were five policemen who had been busy with the traffic since one hour. An ambulance has driven to the hospital two persons seriously injured by a projectile, which had fallen on the hood of a car belonging to a university professor.

“A projectile? A big projectile?”

“Rather: it was a child.”

Gavin jumped. The RK900 collected carefully all information, all impressions, as well as the structure of the place, the potential witnesses. The policeman went on:

“Well, a child— That’s what we thought, that’s why the accident created such a panic: it was an android, one of these children models, you know. But you can imagine why the teacher freaked: he was rolling quietly and a thing with a head, two arms and two legs smashed on his bumper. He thought it was a seven-year-old who had just killed himself on his car and, scared, he stupidly made a turn, bumping into two other cars.

“The teacher was hurt?”

“Yes, well, it’s less serious than the other one who was a pedestrian, but they’re both at the hospital and in a shocked state, I think. The teacher will have trouble recovering”

“And the android?” The RK900 wondered where that projectile was, but Gavin snapped his tongue and glared at it. The machine was assisting him, yes, of course, but it did not give it the right to speak.

“It exploded in pieces: we found the head a dozen meters away but it looks like a burst balloon, everything is certainly broken.”

“But where did it fall from? Nobody asked for it?”

“No, that’s the oddest: according to a witness, it fell from one of the windows of the hotel right there.” The agent pointed to the proud building. Without even having to count them one by one, Gavin estimated that there must be around forty floors and the colleague almost pointed to the roof. “We interviewed the staff but no one remembers receiving a customer who had such a model, and it was two hours and there’s still no complaint.”

Gavin shrugged, remembering to watch the time. The session was about to start in twenty minutes and he had on his arms a robot left in pieces and two wounded already taken care of. The witness had already said everything but perhaps he was wrong: the android could have fallen from any building after all.

“Maybe it was one of those deviants and the owner tried to get rid of it discreetly. It isn’t an emergency, we keep it in reserve and wait if someone comes to recover, still it would surprise me. If you can have the serial number, ask CyberLife for the owner’s name so we can send him a fine for garbage on the street and endangered.”

“Got it, detective.”

“Detective,” the android said, “maybe we should do more research at the hotel now. It’s very big and the fall of the android was about an hour and forty minutes ago, maybe the right person hasn’t been questioned yet. We could go and inspect the rooms and—

“Shut it, Connor.”

“Conrad.”

“You could be named toilet broom or Empress Sissi, I don’t care. You already had the audacity to come to my home while I’m on vacation. It’s already unbearable to see your face, if in addition you come to drag it in my living room, maybe you’ll jump too from my window.

“From a fourth floor, the result would be less convincing and another model would replace me, detective.”

Gavin did not let it finish; he turned on his heel and returned to his vehicle. Leaning against the door, Fathia waited, intrigued by the event.

“So?”

“So nothing, Fowler made me waste time, that’s all.”

“But nothing serious?”

“An android fell from a window and hit the car of a guy who just wanted to go home. As it was a child model, the driver thought he had just killed a child. A pedestrian was caught in the delirium and they’re both at the hospital.”

“That’s horrible!”

Gavin was already settling down, but his friend was still on the sidewalk, watching the scene from afar. She had always been sensitive. Her profession embraced infidelity and invited fear in her daily life, yet Fathia could be moved so easily.

“Are we leaving or do you want to stay there?”

“Gavin! It’s weird, can’t you do something? Android kids are adopted for sentimental reasons, not to do the dishes, we don’t throw them just like that.”

“And what do you want me to do, Fathia? Analyze the traces of blue blood to find out in which direction the arms and legs flew? I don’t care! It’s a machine! A piano or a washing machine would have fallen on the road, it would have been the same! A dumb-ass dropped it and he’ll pay for the repairs of the car he damaged, that’s all!”

Conrad remained silent near them. It kept a certain distance with the detective’s car, asserting its need to stay and investigate. The lady of the night was right: androids rarely fell from the sky, especially a child model, and the RK900 would have liked to recover what was left of the machine. There might have been some remnant of information, a clue of unknown events, something that a human would not be able to perceive.

“So whoever threw the android is guilty! Don’t you want to stop him right away? Or maybe you’ll give him two weeks off before he receives a court summons?”

“Perhaps the android has passed over the rail, these machines are so dumb, look at their revolution last year! They were over thirty and they all fell in front of the same fucking robot!”

“Who cares? A child fell—”

“It was a machine, Fathia. A fucking machine that will be replaced by another CyberLife prodigy.”

Fathia suddenly lowered her voice and her head, disappointed. Gavin wanted her to forget about this event: they had planned a nice evening and he had more than five hours of driving tomorrow, so he did not want to argue.

“Hey, the movie starts in about ten minutes, we still have time to see it.”

The young woman sighed and kept her arms crossed. Anger still died so fast in this huge heart, while in Gavin’s one, that feeling seemed to feed on the little flesh it might found, nibbling constantly for months and months.

“I don’t understand, Gavin. You want the rank of sergeant but sometimes, the laws pass completely over your head.”

“So maybe I should nick you for working last night? How many customers did you have? Five?”

“You’re really stupid when you’re acting like that, Gavin.”

In response, he slammed the door and started the car, leaving the prostitute and the android to go home. Fathia began to nibble her lips and suddenly opened her bag to look for a handkerchief that she lifted to her eyes. She had to dry those pearls of tears before she really started crying.

Gavin had never attacked her about her job, especially since he knew that she was so rigorous about the question of hygiene and her principles. But he also had this immaturity to strike the weak points, even if he regrets it later.

“I don’t like arguing with him.” She was not speaking alone: Conrad was still there, staring at the rear lights, which were diminishing to match heads. “There’s no middle ground with Gavin: he can be a love or an ass-hole.”

The android was silent. Without allowing itself to judge its teammate, it certainly had noticed this attitude: the friendship attitude with Officer Chen or the execrable behavior for the robot, the playful kid jokes or the most virulent insults.

“Will you walk with me back home?” The RK900 was surprised by this request. “But maybe you have schedules at the police station?”

“Even if it was the case, nobody would pay attention. Do you live far away?”

“A quarter of an hour, I think.”

The tip of her nose was starting to turn red so Conrad started soon following her. Very quickly, she put her arm around his, walking side by side in the gray avenue, their steps tapping against the sidewalk that reflected a thousand lights.

“I didn’t know your name is Conrad.” Fathia suddenly observed, letting the android guess that if Gavin had spoken of it, it was not in the best terms.

“I didn’t know that detective Reed had sympathized with an informer and invited her to go to see a movie.”

She laughed, nervous. Fathia suddenly wondered if the machines had a sense of confidence.

“We never choose our friends. Do you want to know how Gavin and I started to sympathize?” Conrad nodded. The robot had never managed to mollify the detective so it was curious to know how this evening flower had managed to approach him. “Actually, it’s pretty stupid: I started giving police news early last year. People often think that human prostitution no longer exists because of places like the Eden Club, but we still have a lot of work in the industry. A pimp began to become dangerous and with some friends, we managed to make him fall.”

“Detective Reed took your statement?”

“No, well, yes. Not the first time actually, a pretty nasty chick took it. I didn’t ask her to cry for us, but at least she could have shown some compassion, a bit of humanity.” The word sounded strange for the RK900 and it tried to understand what the young woman was trying to say. “I had to come back and luckily, as she had fallen ill, Gavin was replacing her. He took my statement and we laughed because I made a reference to Millenium, an old Norwegian book.”

“The novels by Stieg Larsson? He was Swedish.”

“Oh yes, sorry!” She was so spontaneous, so frank. Her way of apologizing for such a futile detail encouraged Conrad to smile. A sore smile, barely hemmed, but its mechanical muscles seemed to relax despite the cold. “Finally it made him laugh and the conversation drifted more than once. He had a report to record so we had to be serious again. Whenever I had information to give, I asked for Gavin to take care of it.”

“Would you say Detective Reed is more human?”

“I think nobody’s more human than Gavin. When we know the pain, we become irreparably human.”

Fathia really thought so: just like humanity, Gavin could be capable of the worst as well as the best. His remark had hurt her, but she remembered how his skinny arms rocked her during the saddest nights, how he wrapped her in the sheets for laughing, protecting her.

The android understood that the story was not finished yet. It felt the embrace around its elbow tighten.

“And one evening, at the end of November, he called me. He didn’t feel well and needed to talk. It was early so we talked for four hours. The suicide of one of his colleagues had really moved him.”

“Lieutenant Anderson’s suicide?”

Fathia nodded and kept silent for a few moments. She only knew the old man from sight and she remembered the suffering that had marked the lieutenant’s face: there were wrinkles that were time marks, but some were bites of heavy sorrow.

“As he didn’t want to hang up and me either, I came to his house and we spent the night together. It happened just like this.”

They had arrived at the bottom of the building and Conrad thought it had to go back to the police station and spend the night sitting in the office, the vast room lit by the evanescent screens and haunted by the androids on standby. In fact, the RK900 would spend its inactive weekend until the return of the detective like that.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Why would I come in?”

With the brutality of artificial intelligence, Conrad asked the reasons for this invitation. Since the joke of Officer Chen and Gavin, he had become suspicious.

“You’re right, you don’t drink tea or coffee, but maybe you still want to talk?”

No, it had no want. The machine had to mold itself to the requirements of its program and its social environment without experiencing pleasure or having the choice. Yet she was pleasantly soft and even the RK900 was touched by this rare sympathy.

“You want to talk to me?”

“Of course!”

She laughed as if it was logical evidence. Once again, the android LED pulsed, brighter, more yellow and more vivid. It was like waking up under the touch of dawn, opening your eyes to the burning horizon. Conrad then crossed the hall with Fathia, towards the elevator with her.

“Gavin won’t agree to speak to you, on the other hand, I’d be glad to give you answers but I need something from you.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

“To tell more about androids.”

The compromise seemed fair to it.

Leaning in the corridor while Fathia was putting her pajamas in her bedroom, Conrad was thinking. He suspected that an intimate relationship was binding detective Reed and the young woman. The cop who was close to the depression and the prostitute who struggled to keep her head out of the water, capable of optimism, this sweet placebo that manages to relieve some pain anchored in the soul. But their relationship was not what interested the android: Anderson’s suicide was the beginning of all the hatred that aimed the machine, and even if the RK900 was not allowed to ask questions, since his interests were fake, he needed to understand, he neededed data on this event that thwarted his existence.

“Have you already met my predecessor? The RK800 named Connor?”

“No, I haven’t. But Gavin told me about it.”

She appeared with a fluffy t-shirt that fell on close shorts that revealed the ink drawings on her thighs and calves. Her long legs brought her to the kitchen where the young woman began to make tea. She loved mint tea and, heiress to techniques from Maghreb, she knew how to prepare it with a precise care. The sweet scent of honey began to spread as the android watched her.

“Can you repeat what he said about the RK800?”

“I wouldn’t prefer. I know that androids don’t feel pain but Gavin dreamed about all kinds of torture for this android and I don’t really want to repeat them.”

Conrad insisted nevertheless:

“Some policemen say that Lieutenant Anderson committed suicide because of my predecessor. The RK800 had missions but protecting humans is a priority for all androids, so I don’t understand how it’s possible.”

A delicate question for someone who had witnessed this drama from afar, yet Fathia brought together memories and Gavin’s words, so she could try to enlighten the android:

“From what I understood, the deviant case was passed onto the FBI guys. Connor continued the investigation, ignoring the orders of his superior who, according to rumors, had developed some kind of attachment to the deviant androids. The RK800 shot the deviant leader down, Marc something, I forgot its name. And the civil war would have shocked the lieutenant.”

Fathia chose her words carefully: for the first time, she dreaded the reaction of the RK900, since it was certainly a deviant hunter too, so she did not want to give any clear opinion about the revolt of the previous year, borrowing expressions that had been repeated in the articles back then.

“According to Gavin, Anderson already had suicidal tendencies, came to work only when he wanted to—

“Therefore he was bad lieutenant.”

“I don’t know. For me, he was a sorrowful man, maybe he has never been happy in his life. Gavin judged him too quickly too.”

Conrad listened attentively, but it still did not understand the relationship between the RK800 and the lieutenant’s death. It thanked Fathia all the same: she was after all the first human to speak to it so easily and with such kindness.

Sitting on a high chair, knees tight and hands tight around her cup, a sleeve slid down her arm. Conrad then noticed the scars that looked like winter lines on the olive skin, hidden in the tattoos.

“Why have you done that?”

Fathia did not need to know it was talking about her scarification marks. She looked down at the golden beverage, so hot it reminded the summer already far behind.

“I wasn’t well. I couldn’t have any emotion anymore, so I had to hurt myself so I could cry. When you can’t feel anything, it’s so horrible that you go crazy and look for any way to find even the slightest emotion.”

The codes of the machine began to decipher a very strange question: did all human beings suffer so much? The young woman was the first person it really talked to and she had taught it that Lieutenant Anderson, Gavin and herself had gone through painful times.

She suddenly held out her hand, looking for comfort. Conrad responded to this invitation and placed his fingers between hers, feeling the warmth of this soft palm.

“We do stupid things sometimes. Like insulting.”

Like looking for a culprit who was innocent.

“The RK800 isn’t responsible for Lieutenant Anderson’s death.”

Fathia shrugged, a sad look: she did not have all the answers. The RK900 suddenly broke off contact and explained that he had to leave: he was going to see Detective Reed and discuss with him. Now that it had more information, the machine was going to defend itself, able to reason with its teammate.

Before it crossed the threshold, Fathia held it by the elbow and put her hands on its shoulders, too high for her.

“Don’t be too harsh with Gavin. Anyway, I’m glad I’ve met you, Conrad. The next time Gavin behaves like a prick or if you want to talk, I’ll be there.”

The RK900 was tempted to remind her that it was a machine, therefore it had neither desire nor envy, but this young woman was so sweet, tender illusion of happiness in this dark city, even the android did not want do not wound this night fairy.

 

Still under the anesthetic effect of anger, Gavin ignored remorse. He had eaten alone, cooking something to barely touch his plate. In his mind, he saw the stoic air of the android and the terrifying absence of emotions. If the RK900 showed up again, it was quite possible that tonight’s incident would happen again in his own street. The media would talk about androids rain.

Lying on his couch, Gavin felt a migraine begin to boil under his forehead, spreading behind his eyes. He had set a movie going to forget his argument with Fathia, he even pushed his cell phone away to not be tempted to check if he had received a message. Gnocchi tried to lie down on his master’s chest as he usually did, real cushion of affection, but when his paws touched the torso, he was repulsed: Gavin felt pain towards his stomach. He did not feel well.

As he was about to turn off the screen to go to sleep and shut the pain in his stomach, he heard the ringing.

“Fathia?”

Gavin had no desire to get up, but she did not have the key to his apartment and he had locked the door, determined to bury himself at home for the night. Dizziness seized him when he got up and, while leaning on the couch, Gavin found balance. He felt squarely nauseous.

The man was going to apologize but when he opened the door on the android, all his anger went up, torturing his stomach.

“Can I come in, Detective Reed? I’ve to talk to you.”

“No! For the last time, get out!”

But the RK900 did not move and pressed its hand against the door, preventing its colleague from snapping it in its face.

“We need to discuss my predecessor, the RK800.”

“We’ll discuss nothing, I don’t want to talk to you!”

That was really the worst evening: now, Gavin had a stubborn machine on his landing and he was feeling feverish. Conrad noticed his complexion turned waxy.

“Are you feeling well, detective?”

Without answering, Gavin rushed to the bathroom and the android heard him vomit.

In such a situation, the android allowed itself to enter and closed the door behind it before venturing into the hallway, hearing Gavin gasp and moan in pain.

“Detective?”

“Damn— Why don’t you just fuck off?”

He no longer wanted to scream at it. Conrad crouched beside him and, without touching him, and tried to make a diagnosis: Gavin must have been worse than a wounded animal, so any contact was prohibited.

“You must have indigestion.”

“It’s your fucking face that I can’t digest.”

“You have to rest.”

“Machines can get sick?”

Conrad was surprised by this question.

“No, detective.”

“Pity. If I had something contagious, I would have given it to you.”

“It isn’t contagious, you just have indigestion, it will pass if you continue to purge yourself.”

“Then get lost or I’ll purge on you.”

The RK900 straightened up and let the detective kneel over the toilet bowl. Gavin still felt bad and did not dare to leave immediately, his mouth full of acidity, his stomach still stirred. He contracted his jaw and throat, sick also to the idea that the android was still there.

As for the robot, it took a towel in the bathroom and moistened it. The conversation was postponed but while the detective was prostrate next door, it could find out more about its partner. Above the sink, on a glass plate attached to the mirror, there was a toothbrush, toothpaste and perfume. Conrad had already noticed the smell of cedar over Gavin’s throat. If there were two or three women’s affairs, that was the maximum, just for Fathia when she came for the night without warning.

Conrad came back to Gavin and handed him the towel, but the detective refused it, too proud.

“I can fend for myself and I already have a mother, no need to activate your maternal program.”

His knees were still shaking but the sick man managed to pull himself up, leaning on the toilet bowl, the walls but certainly not the android. And while he was washing himself, getting rid of sweat and foul taste, Conrad was going to get him a glass of water. Gavin was looking in his pharmacy for something to ease the cramps that ran through his stomach like electric currents. He glanced at the glass that the android was stretching but ignored it again, persisting in his refusal then exiled himself to his bedroom.

The night was long for both. Gavin was too exhausted to repeat to the android the order to leave, tired of fighting, preferring to go to bed. The RK900 sat on the sofa in the living room, waiting, becoming a curiosity against which the cat could rub.

The android had heard Gavin get up two or three times to go back to vomit, but the machine did not come to support him: its teammate did not need it, so Conrad was just fondling Gnocchi, enjoying how his fur was long and soft, and above all, how much less feral the creature was than his owner.

In the early morning, Conrad heard some noise coming from the detective’s room: Gavin was packing his bags with the intention of driving to Milwaukee.

“Are you leaving, Detective Reed?”

Gavin did not answer; he just kept walking between his closet and his gym bag, listing the clothes he had planned to wear and choosing them according to the weather. The dark circles under his eyes were frightening and the RK900 interfered, holding the detective by the shoulders.

“Are you going to drive after the night you had?”

“I’m going to eat something and get going right after, so once and for all: leave my home.

“Your stomach needs rest, _you_ need rest.”

“Are you an android policeman or nurse?”

“Like all androids, I’ve a program that takes care of human beings, but you really make it difficult for me, detective.”

Gavin tried to overtake it, but the machine barred him again, uncompromising.

“I won’t let you drive, Detective Reed.”

“Fuck!”

Under the annoyance, Gavin swung the folded sweater he had on his arms to Conrad’s face, pushing it at the same time.

“I’m thirty-seven and I won’t let a machine that has barely a month give me orders. I’ll go to Milwaukee today and the more you hold me back, the more I lose time.”

“Why are you so keen to go while you’re still weak?”

Bitter, the man went to his bathroom and began to take his travel stuff, filling his toilet bag while grumbling:

“You’re just a fucking machine: you don’t know what a family is. In fact, it’s worse than that: you can’t understand why affection is important to a human being since you will never need it anyway.”

From the doorframe, Conrad replied:

“Like having sex with a fink, detective?”

The barb did not hurt him. Gavin turned to it, his hands on his hips like he was exposing himself to the judgments, sneering frankly. Yes, he was committing professional misconduct, yes, he slept with a prostitute without the tariffs. He already knew it all.

“And so what? You’re jealous?”

“No, but I want to be sure you understand how serious it is.”

“Do you know what’s _serious_? That you’re still right on my ass while I asked you thirty times to leave!”

This new burst of anger deprived him of the little strength he had, so he clung to the edge of the sink. With the lack of sleep, a new headache rumbled in the depths of his brain.

Frustrated, Gavin realized that the machine was right: if he drove, he would have to stop too often, making the trip endless and he would not enjoy the weekend. But as the detective pulled out his cell phone to warn his mother that he could not come, Conrad moved slowly toward him.

“I’m going to drive, detective. Just give me the address in Milwaukee and you can sleep on the seat.”

Gavin had rejected all RK900’s approaches, all its questions, its intentions, its help. But for the first time, he was tempted to accept this service.

“What are you looking for?”

“I just want to be useful. When you’ll understand that I’m here to help, you stop preventing me from working.”

 

With a jacket rolled to imitate a pillow and clasped by a thick blanket, Gavin managed to settle in the back seat of the car. The weather was getting stormy, but the fatigue left the cold swirling around his bones, making him shudder.

Conrad put the cage where Gnocchi was on the passenger seat. The master had insisted that the cat go with them, after all, he was the gift of his thirty-sixth birthday, one year ago, so Gavin wanted to embark him. However the cat was uncomfortable, frightened and meowing from the first kilometers.

“Shut up, Gnocchi, I’m the one who should be scared: a tin can is driving my car.”

Hands on the wheel, attentive to the road, the android did not listen. Some music might calm the tension, so it stretched its palm, the synthesized skin off, over the touch-sensitive surface of the dashboard and turned on the first music file that was _AC/DC_.

“No, not _AC/DC_ ,” Gavin tightened the blanket over his shoulders, eyes closed. These tunes reminded him of a man he had hated and who had killed himself in a shabby kitchen, alone under a greenish light. “Change it.”

Conrad immediately thought of the _Poets of the Fall_ , and it picked the file, letting the languid rhythm of _False Kings_ rock the detective.

“Is it your favorite song, detective?”

“Why?”

“We’ve known each other for a month and you’ve listened to this song seventy-five times at work, it comes back more often than the others.”

Gavin opened his eyes and stared at the clouds of lead outside. He did not want to answer the android, so he mumbled instead:

“Why do you care?”

“I’d like to know you, detective Reed. You asked Captain Fowler to partner with me, I’m aware you did it for revenge, but in the meantime, you’re the person I work with and I’ve no choice but to try to know you. Otherwise, you’ll have to bequeath me to someone else, I prefer someone more senior if you don’t mind, because just like the RK800, I must be assigned to a lieutenant, at least.”

“Wait, I must have heard wrong, but did you just insinuate that I was too low in the hierarchy for your skills?”

“Maybe.”

Gavin punched the seat in front of him.

“Dipshit.”

Conrad felt the blow on its back and, curiously, its lips sketched the start of a smile.

Gnocchi had finally fallen asleep, exhausted by crying. The muzzle hidden between his front paws, he seemed to enjoy a precious sleep. Gavin soon did the same, listening only to the music, the linear roads of the highways allowing him to fall asleep.

The android was thinking of nothing, focused on the road with a rigor specific to its machine condition. The idea of meeting Detective Reed’s family did not arouse any impatience. Maybe it was going to become a kind of PL600 for a long weekend, Gavin would have fun ridiculing it in front of his parents and his siblings, but the machine was not afraid of anything. In fact, Conrad did not know how many Reed there were. Was the detective the eldest? The youngest? The big brother of a little boy who idolized him? Or did he have an older sister who had martyred him during his early years? What did those who created him look like?

Conrad knew nothing, and without any data it could not establish any probability. Then it was simply driving on that road, to an unknown destination, its head empty.

The detective emerged after two hours with a loud yawn. He stretched his legs first, like a cat, then his arms and his knuckles brushed the hair of the android. He straightened up a little, vaguely recognizing the road.

“Do you know when we’ll arrive, Kenneth?”

“We’ll arrive at half-past three, detective. And my name’s Conrad.”

“Yeah, as you want.”

Gavin leaned over to see how Gnocchi was doing but the cat was stubbornly in his dreams. He wanted to caress him but left the cat in his comfort. Instead, he sent a message to his mother to give her the time of arrival.

“Why don’t you like my name?”

“Because it sounds like Connor.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about yesterday, detective. I spoke with Miss El Harbi and she told me that you think Connor was responsible for Lieutenant Anderson’s death.”

“That _I_ think? That all the police station thinks, you mean.”

“Yes. But you’re my teammate so I wanted to have this conversation with you: my predecessor isn’t responsible for any crime.”

“Your predecessor was an asshole and Hank was already psychologically fragile. He had suicidal tendencies, yeah, but Connor speeded up the process. But can you only understand that, metal box?”

“Connor wasn’t an asshole, detective, it was only a machine that had a mission to accomplish. Your lieutenant may have imagined that he could divert it from its objectives and sympathize with it, before being disappointed.”

Gavin clenched his fists but managed to contain himself. Hitting the android while it was driving was not the best solution and the RK900 certainly knew it, it obviously took the opportunity to come up to the subject.

“You, humans, have a tendency to anthropomorphism and sometimes you get attached to your androids by reproducing your feelings on us when we feel nothing. You imagine that we can be hurt, touched or happy. But we only obey our functions. Suicide’s a crime where the victim’s the only criminal, detective, and it’s the same for Lieutenant Anderson.”

Gavin would have torn out that mechanical tongue and all the rest of the blue muscle if he could. He would have smashed its jaw with a metal bar, smashing steel against titanium. But he could not be violent, so he leaned toward the ear of the android, bitter.

“Maybe you're right, maybe Hank wanted to see Connor as a human being. But it won’t happen with you and as soon as the opportunity arises, I’ll destroy you. The best technicians won’t even be able to tell the difference between your arm and your leg.”

“You see, detective?” The machine was not breathing and its thirium pump was running with the same steady regularity. It had a mechanical clock, not a heart. “What do you expect from me by saying that? Should I answer with threats? Should I beg you on my knees? If it pleases you, I could sing _Poets of the Fall_ while you’re having fun hitting me since you love them so much, or I could be screaming in pain. Which do you prefer?”

“Fuck off.”

“You also anthropomorphize me even if you don’t want to recognize it. You even associate me with my predecessor to get revenge, but that won’t relieve you, detective. Because I won’t feel anything.”

Gavin had worked very hard to hurt the machine by humiliating it, pushing it away without giving in to desires for violence, yet this time he was the one beaten. On this bitter defeat, the man laid down again and tried to go back to sleep for the end of the trip. He had nothing to answer.

Conrad, impassive, kept its hands on the wheel, its back straight. At its temple, the LED adopted a golden hue, really swift yet so present.

 

At the end of the street, a small, unpretentious house surrounded itself with a garden littered with dead leaves. The walls were painted with a white that could no longer withstand the years, adopting shades of gray or brown on the steps of the steps, the wood being revealed. A Halloween atmosphere was already hidden between the bare and black branches around, carrying with it some smells of pumpkin pies and sweet flavors.

Once the car was parked, Conrad went out to help its partner, but their last conversation had revived the rancor that the human felt against the machine. Gavin opened the trunk and grabbed his bag, before recovering a Gnocchi who was eager for the ride to come to its conclusion.

The RK900 began counting the windows to try to estimate the number of rooms when Gavin suddenly asked it:

“Hey, machine, can you talk sign language?”

“I can, detective.”

Intrigued, the android followed its colleague to the stairs when the front door opened. A little brunette lady greeted them with a broad smile, digging the wrinkles near the corner of her eyes, a sign that she was a laughing and optimistic woman. She was a head shorter than Gavin but that did not stop her from wrapping her arms around her son’s neck, hugging him against her heart.

There was no sound, no exclamations or shouting, Conrad only heard the distant noises of the neighborhood and the crisp sighs slipping on the ground beneath the heaps of leaves. The android understood when it saw Mrs. Reed stepping back and talking to her son with her hands: Gavin’s mother was deaf.

She then looked at the RK900 and greeted it, glad that the android said hello and introduced itself. She signed her name too: Virginia. And Virginia Reed was the only member of Gavin’s family. Neither brother nor sister, the father was absent, but Conrad did not know if he had left this morning or several years ago, therefore the house was in a silence, like the seabed, recalling the same tranquility and solitude.

“Is your mother deaf for a long time, detective?”

“She’s deaf from birth.” Gavin gauged the android, as if he was waiting for a remark like those he had heard as a kid. The son of the deaf was his nickname. “Do you have something to say about it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You know what the only quality of the machines is? You don’t laugh.”

On the stairs that led to the rooms, while the android helped the detective still weak to carry his bag, the codes changed again, racing. An incongruous thought finally formed and Conrad suddenly stopped, staring at the figure of the detective who was going up before it: the advantage of having a deaf mother was that the son could cry as much as he could, she would never hear his wounded sobs, or the wickedness that his comrades told him about her.


	3. The last lady of the night

Lying on his bed and the phone against his ear, Gavin was listening to the long tones, fearing that they would end in a stubborn silence. Gnocchi was wrapped around his hip: the cat seemed to have forgotten this place, following his master and protector in this territory that he imagined was hostile.

“Hey, hello!”

Fathia’s voice. The weight in his rib cage began to melt, releasing a discreet sigh.

“Hey!”

Although he knew she was not spiteful, he had dreaded a cold response, or worse, ignorance. Gavin still had to pay his debt, which was still strangling him:

“Listen, Fathia,” it was easier when there were no storms to dread, so the words spun, barely shaking, “I’m really sorry for what I said. You didn’t need to hear that. I was pissed off by Fowler and the other life-size Ken walking around, I didn’t mean it. But you didn’t deserve that. I acted like a douchebag.

“It’s okay, Gavin, I don’t blame you.”

He heard her breathing out: she must have been smoking, so he straightened up and pulled out his pack of cigarettes too. Two hundred and fifty miles separated them, but imitating the same gestures gave the illusion of proximity. Gavin used his lighter and the tip of the cylinder began to burn while he was leaning on the edge of his window.

“Of course I accept your apologies! It’s nice of you for calling me.”

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, ready to go out: neither the high unemployment rate nor the low temperatures prevented busy Saturdays. The nightclubs would be filled with deafening music, while on the asphalt sidewalks, sexy roses would grow all night long, wrapping their creepers around the necks of wandering men, pricking those who would try to rub before paying.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t answer.”

“I start my night, but I’m like everyone else: I don’t want to go work.”

He laughed, approving and knowing this feeling. Policeman, judge, clerk or prostitute, no matter the job, the temptation to stay at home was the same for everyone.

“The trip to Milwaukee went well?”

“Er, yes—”

Fathia noticed the hesitation and asked him if anything had happened. Releasing the smoke swirling from his lips, Gavin hesitated.

It was funny: that night reminded him of another when he had just turned seventeen. Of course, the horizon he was looking at was very different then: the decades had added far higher buildings, changed the colors of the houses and replaced the neighbors by others. Twenty years ago, when cell phones were still eight millimeters thick and androids still belonged to fiction, his first boyfriend had dumped him. The very night of his seventeen years. This bastard. What was his name already? Ethan? Evan? Gavin had kept the habit of calling him ‘bastard’, so the nickname gradually replaced the name in his memory.

It was odd that he remembered this break now, as he eased possible tensions with Fathia. They were not together, but at least if we were a couple, she would have never hurt him that way. She was too sweet to hurt him.

“Yeah— I got sick last night, so I didn’t sleep much, and—” he inhaled as it cost him to recognize that the android had really helped him. “The machine, it volunteered to drive. I could have fallen asleep on the road, I was ready to cancel, so I accepted”

He suddenly heard a sound of falling on the other end of the line, making him jump:

“Fathia? Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” her voice, at first far away, became close again, “sorry, my cellphone has fallen.”

Her fingers did not have enough grip on the phone to accommodate such a surprise. Luckily, the cell phone was so thin and lightweight, the technology now affecting filiform and flexible screens, that it was intact.

“ _What_ did he do?”

“He got lumbered with a six-hour drive so I could see my mother. No, wipe that smile off you face,” Gavin could not see her, but he could easily guess that she was going to laugh softly, “I don’t get what’s your problem with the machines nowadays, but they’re just there to help us, that’s all, so why deprive myself? Just like when it brings me coffee in the morning, it suits me very well.”

“Is Conrad around?”

Conrad. She called it by its name now.

“No. Why? You miss it? Contact CyberLife and ask them to work with it if you like it so much, I bequeath it to you with pleasure.”

“Ah, it could have a frank success at the Eden Club. We just need to take off that stiff collar, put on it a nice fitted shirt and it could set the company working by itself.”

“Ugh, stop that—”

“Could you let me speak to it, please?”

 

Since it was her house, Virginia Reed had insisted on cleaning the table herself, so the RK900 had not insisted. An android programmed for criminal investigations did not know what to do in a home so peaceful where no noise could be heard. There was a television in the living room but there was no speaker since the image was enough for the user, and it looked like Gavin’s mother preferred to spend her time reading. On the coffee table rested an e-reader with worn buttons, symbols almost erased. While Virginia had her back turned, Conrad extended its hand on the screen and turned it on to check what books it has. Only historical novels, from the most abstract to the most precise, from Antiquity to the Cold War. The android had imagined finding thrillers and detective stories, but perhaps Gavin’s profession had not been inspired by his mother.

The robot straightened up quickly and the synthetic skin expanded again, spreading over its knuckles, its fingers, its nails: it had heard that Gavin went down the stairs and, ashamed of its inexplicable curiosity, it returned at its most rigid programs again.

The detective handed his phone toward the android which looked intrigued.

“Fathia. She wants to talk to you.”

Gavin then put the phone in its palm that turned lunar white. The human grimaced as he saw the plastic, wondering what the RK900 looked like without the artifice. Was it really different once the illusion of humanity faded away?

“Good evening, Miss El Harbi.”

“Good evening, Conrad.”

The android had no need to loosen the lips: thanks to the contact rid of all futility between its hand and the phone, it could formulate sounds while hearing the young woman perfectly, its circuits ensuring the communication process.

“Gavin explained to me what you did, but— I guess he didn’t thank you?”

“No he didn’t. Since we had a new dispute during the trip, I don’t think Detective Reed wants to talk to me tonight.”

“Oh—”

Was it disappointment it had just perceived?

From the corner of the eye, the RK900 saw the signs that the mother and son were exchanging. She blamed him for eating so little and he justified his lack of appetite because of the previous night, but Virginia was not naive: she had noticed how Gavin had lost weight, as if the kilos had disappeared only to accumulate on the shoulders of the man, feeding the beast of mourning.

“Anyway, _I_ appreciate what you did and I thank you. I was wondering if you did it because helping Gavin is part of your mission or if it was more— deliberate?”

The RK900 did not understand this question.

“My question might sound silly, Conrad, but I was sincere when I said that I wanted to understand androids better. Are the deviant the only ones who can feel attachment?”

“The deviants don’t feel attachment; there are errors in their systems and they interpret them otherwise. You don’t need to worry for us, Miss El Harbi: we’re programmed to help human beings, nothing more. The fact I avoided an accident that had seventy-seven percent chance of happening to Detective Reed is part of my duties. Don’t lend us feelings we don’t have.”

Her silence reflected her annoyance and this reaction reminded the android of the venomous conversation that it and Gavin had exchanged a few hours ago.

“I see—” it heard her nibble her thumb. “But please, try to pretend it’s spontaneous, okay?”

“Of course, that’s also part of my programs.”

She sighed, her fingers still pressed against her lips.

“Try to be nice to each other, okay?”

“I’ll try, miss El Harbi.”

And Conrad heard the tones that concluded their call. It returned the phone to its owner, preferring to keep the details of their conversation quiet. But if the sociability mission was important, then the RK900 would rank it as a priority. Fathia’s sympathy for the machines could have started as early as the deviant revolution, but it seemed quite recent and the robot was unaware of the reasons.

 

It was not yet midnight when the RK900 knocked on the door of Gavin’s bedroom. Virginia had already gone to bed for a long time, leaving the android in the lobby, a simple machine able to put itself away. Crossed hands in the back, straight profile, the android had begun its wait as a sentinel, leaving the moon to trace its path in the sky, until a detail came shake its codes, an error that it had to remedy.

“What do you want?”

From his bed, Gavin had guessed the identity of the visitor who entered slowly. While the lights were out, the rays of the streetlights from outside still managed to pierce the slits of the shutters, grazing the shapes and drawing suggested shadows. The human rose on his elbows and perfectly saw the LED, azure circle, just like the cuff.

“I forgot to wish you a happy birthday, detective. It isn’t midnight yet, I’m still in time.”

“You could just send me a message on my cell phone. I know you can do that.”

“I could, but you don’t read my messages.”

Gavin replied with a groan. The bluish glow did not move: the android maintained a barrier between them, cold distance.

“Can we talk?”

Conrad heard Gavin fall back on the mattress, his hands on his face to accentuate his annoyance. Yes, he was grumbling, but he did not refuse.

“Do you miss my threats? That’s why you came?”

“No,” the RK900 allowed itself a first step, the old floor creaked with a ghost murmur. “I wanted to talk to you about your friend.”

“Fathia?”

Way too proud, Gavin had not asked it what it had discussed with her. But when the diode moved, Gavin understood that the robot had just confirmed with a nod.

“Do you know why Mademoiselle El Harbi is so interested in androids?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think she’s interested in you: I would say that it’s just _anthropomorphism_.”

The machine could almost see the teeth unveiled by this carnivorous smile. On the first floor, it had seen framed pictures of his childhood, Gavin at age seven right next to a ten-year-old one placed near another at age fifteen, and a detail had struck the android: the detective had kept his childish smile, a smile that could be jolly or cruel.

“It wasn’t a reproach, detective: I obey my program as you obey your instincts. I shouldn’t have said that to you when I know that mourning is one of the hardest trials for humans. I’m sorry.”

Apparently, it was the night of forgiveness. Gavin spread his fingers, revealing an eye to observe the diode that was blue. The mimed sincerity was convincing, but unlike Fathia, Gavin doubted that robots could have emotions.

At the time of the revolution, he had not supported the movement at all, believing that the emotions supposedly felt by the machines were only computerized degenerations.

Suspicious, the detective preferred to keep quiet.

Conrad allowed itself to sit on the edge of the bed, realizing that its stature could be threatening and that it had to put itself at the height of its partner. He was already taller than the detective and knew that some men could not stand being dominated by their subordinates.

“I didn’t know that your mother was deaf.”

“Don’t be upset: not many people are aware of it. Even Fathia doesn’t know.”

“She never wanted to be operated on? There have been several successes in this area for six years.”

The android heard him laugh again, wondering when it would get rid of that bit of mockery.

“That’s so typical, machines are all the same: everything must work perfectly, right? My mother was born like this and will soon celebrate her seventieth birthday, she never wanted to hear.” Indeed, this logic was to strange for the RK900. “It’s her difference and she made it a pride. We’ve always lived very well like this.”

“Is your father dead?”

“No. He just cleared off.”

“So you have your mother’s name.”

“Yeah.”

They had met a month before, but it was the first time they had been able to chain words so easily. The darkness certainly helped because it concealed the face that Gavin had learned to hate, concentrating their senses on the sounds.

“Why did you choose to be a policeman?”

“Not for working with you, that’s for sure.” His voice seemed less vehement, as if it was tired with so much resentment. “If I had been told that androids were going to replace us in this domain, I might have chosen something else.”

“I’m not here to replace you, detective, but to assist you.”

“Do you think I’m dumb? You were created by CyberLife, the only structure that has the most human resources in this country and that seeks to implement their products everywhere. You’re going to take our job.”

“Is this why you hate androids so much?”

“Right, so in fact, you came to philosophize— Even though I slept in the car, I’m still tired, so it isn’t the moment.”

Gavin slumped to the side, turning his back to make it understand that their exchange was over, raising his legs to adopt a posture similar to Gnocchi’s one. The cat was rolled into a ball on the pillow near.

“Of course, detective. I wish you a good night.”

“Hey, tin can.” Conrad stopped before leaving the room, turning one last time to the reclining form that stared at it, without malice. “Thank you. Well, thank you for the trip, don’t get me wrong, whether you wish me my birthday or not, I don’t care.”

Was it the reflection of a lamp post? Or maybe a yellow light really illuminated on the android’s temple? The flash was too short, Gavin could not be sure.

Without a word, the android left the room. It doubted being able to associate as Fathia could do with the detective, and yet it knew a secret that the young woman did not know. If Gavin lived his mother’s disability very well, he certainly had suffered during his childhood, as Conrad would have confirmed the next day, meeting people his partner hated more than he hated the android.

Virginia needed her son to clear the roof of a heavy branch that had fallen after a thunderstorm: the arm of the tree had not caused any significant damage, but leaving it could be dangerous, so Gavin had positioned a ladder to climb and complete the task. A man was passing at the same time in the street and called to him:

“Hi, Gavin!”

According to the RK900’s estimates, the approaching visitor was of a similar age to its teammate, but Gavin seemed intent on ignoring him until he had no choice but to finally say a “Hi, Peter.” without giving him a look. The man named Peter was about to ask for news of his old comrade when he saw the android supporting the balance of the ladder, and the piercing eyes of the machine were focused on him.

“Oh, I didn’t know you bought an android.”

“Hello, my name’s Conrad and I’m actually—”

“Yeah, surprising, I know.” Gavin interrupted it without Conrad knowing why. “It’s rather useful.”

“It’s a model I don’t know at all, which one is it?”

“I don’t remember, but they’re still recent. What do you have at your home?”

“An AX400.”

“Ah yes. An AX400.”

The little grin, almost condescending, did not escape Peter.

“Why don’t you let it take care of this branch? Is it not used for that?”

“Because I’m not a crumbling old man yet,” Gavin climbed down the ladder and put a hand on Conrad’s shoulder, quite proud, “it’s helping me but I know how to be efficient too. How much have they have estimated your life time?”

“A hundred and fifty years, detective.”

“See, Peter? When I celebrate my eighties, it will take care of that. It’s just here to _assist_ me, that’s all.”

The RK900 guessed an allusion to their conversation from last night but remained silent, still staring at Peter. The two men talked for a few more minutes and the android noticed that Gavin seemed to take pleasure in contradicting him, even if he was wrong.

“You introduced me like a domestic model,” Conrad observed right after Peter’s departure.

“Okay, I admit: I’ve just treated you like a luxury sports car.”

“Why?”

Gavin finally withdrew his hand and, memories reappearing, crossed his arms.

“Because this guy is an asshole. During all my schooling, he imitated me when I signed with my mother and called me a monkey. And that, until high school.”

“It was years ago, detective.”

“Ah! That’s so easy to say that, Playmobil: he ruined my childhood, of course he can think that it was ages ago and everything’s fine now, except that _I_ was the one who has suffered his mockery, and in twenty years, I’ll still hate him.”

Suddenly, Conrad understood why Gavin had never encouraged his mother to be operated: beyond a very personal pride, the deaf woman remained her mother and to cure her disability was to bow to the demands of people like Peter, while they should have accepted her this way, remembering that deafness was not a birth choice. It was now clearer.

The android began to smile, softly.

“I see what you mean, detective. I would go again for a domestic model in front of this kind of individuals then, to do you a favor.”

Gavin laughed. A real laugh. Something as surprising as a swallow in winter, as incongruous as an owl on a sunny afternoon. The kind of laughter that Tina could hear, that Fathia could appreciate, and now the android too could hear it.

“Great, Colin.”

“Conrad.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

And he climbed back up.

 

The next evening, Conrad did not return to Gavin’s room. The hands of the clock announced that it was one o’clock in the morning, just as in its internal system: the detective and the android would take the road to return to Detroit in nine hours. In the shaded entrance hall, it raised its hands, distinguished them with a vision adapted to the night and played with its joints. Gavin refused to speak without signing in the presence of his mother, even when he was speaking only to the android and he had imposed this rule of respect on the RK900 throughout the weekend. Sometimes words were passed and wrists turned, fingers folded or relaxed, lining up with silent ideas that only the eyes could translate.

Without being ashamed, Gavin was still silencing his ability to speak sign language but Conrad was wondering if they could communicate like that again, just together, getting rid of the bitter tone and aggressive intentions.

But perhaps like the leaves and flowers, the provocations had begun to fade, succumbing to the well-established autumn. At the moment of departure, Gavin assured the android that he could drive, accustomed to these trips. The RK900 then took the passenger’s seat and discreetly watched Virginia’s arms wrapped around her son’s neck, wishing him a good journey through her heart. This little lady, remaining in silence, was getting back to loneliness, an idea that Gavin always bore with difficulty. So when he took place in the car, he had no desire to argue with the android and kept silent.

The android’s circuits pulsed, animated by a multitude of messages and codes, constantly asking how detective Reed would be once they were back at the police station. In two days, they had managed to talk, to laugh once even if it was to return to a gloomy seriousness immediately after. If androids could have presentiments, Conrad would have felt his heart lighten up, reassured by this new beginning, but artificial intelligences calculated probabilities and the one about its partner’s cooperation reached encouraging percentages.

 

There was still no complaint about the android child falling from the sky, and if technology had made communications instant, human laziness slowed the search down, so the police were still waiting for the name of the buyer, patience worn by CyberLife’s preciousness.

The RK900 was waiting against the wall, with the other PC200 and PM700, contrasting with its less common uniform. As long as Detective Reed had not arrived at the police station, the machine had to wait among its fellows.

 

Gavin put his phone down for the second time, leaving it on the edge of the sink. Fathia might be sleeping again. He inspected his face in the mirror, ran his palm over his cheek and convinced himself that shaving could wait until tomorrow. Then he undressed to enter the shower, warming himself under boiling water. His hand then hit Fathia’s bottle of shampoo, the one that smelled of lilac. Gavin knew she was yearning for spring: she was endowed with angelic patience, except for the return of sweet weather. This thought made him smile.

Soon, their first night together would celebrate his first year. He wondered if traditions demanded birthday gifts between sex friends. He hoped it does not since he had something else to do.

 

Programs awake, Conrad was watching the team that was preparing with professional speed: two groups of four, six humans and two androids, were leaving for the train station, more precisely in a deserted building a hundred yards away. An ambulance called, asking for help: a body had been found by squatters.

If Detective Reed’s presence was not requested, the RK900 still left its line. After all, its missions had to involve more serious business than classic burglaries or speeding. An opportunity at its height might be present.

 

It was a real pleasure to feel the water flowing over his shoulders, reminiscent of the feeling of a massage, relaxing the muscles and cradling the heart. Those mornings where the detective could take his time were moments of happiness. Gavin ran his fingers through his hair, untangling them, soaping them and rubbing them.

He suddenly felt a touch along his back, reminding fingers that outlined, with the tips of fingernails, a line from the shoulder blade to the hip, fleeting but so real that Gavin jumped and turned, finding himself face to face with the glass covered with vapor, opaque and intact veil. He cut off the water and even looked outside, certain to have been touched. But his reflections were interrupted by ringing.

Forced to dry himself at full speed, Gavin wrapped himself in a towel and headed for the entrance, looking through the peephole to see that it was the android.

“If you really want to work, you can start without me, you know.”

Even though the door was open, the RK900 did not enter.

“Dress quickly, detective Reed, a body was found around the station.”

“A body? Wait, what?”

“I don’t have enough information for now.”

“A team didn’t head toward it?”

“A team of eight left, yes, but I can handle more important cases than road accidents and I’ve to go, but I can’t get there without you.”

Hands on hips, Gavin sighed:

“I’ve never seen a pile of junk as narcissistic as you. Just give me five minutes.”

From the bathroom, the RK900 heard him claiming coffee on the spot as compensation.

 

The tarred soil supported two inches of rainwater, forming irregular and brown pools. Gavin already regretted his shortened shower. The RK900 was following close behind, an umbrella protecting them both from the drops that had begun to fall as soon as they left. Once inside the disused building, the android bent the umbrella and hurried ahead of its teammate.

The place was sordid by this time: the walls were full of moisture and exhaled icy breath, dragging a heavy atmosphere in the naked corridors. Accustomed to these places, reminiscent of old Detroit, Gavin did not tighten his coat, facing temperatures close to those of a morgue.

Finally, they heard the sound of colleagues’ conversations at the bend of a drier corridor, delimited by the digital ribbon, gilded dust in the void to enclose the crime scene. A PM700 scanned the detective’s plate and lets him cross the line with his android.

It was fortunate that Conrad did not bring him his compensatory coffee because Gavin would have let it fall, knocking it down near Fathia’s lifeless body.

He did not hear questions from his colleagues who were surprised to see him there.

Fairy, witch, or earthly siren, Gavin had never known, but Fathia looked horribly human and deadly in this disarticulated posture. The eyelids were not quite closed, perhaps trying to spark a last glimmer of life, still, the two lakes at the bottom were dry.

The android kneeled close to the body, taking care not to walk in the pool of blood that had spread, haloing this being so unreal. The bangs were now burnt by the passage of a bullet that had dug its way in the middle of the forehead, staying warm in the victim’s brain, chasing dreams and thoughts to install its lead body better, expelling even the blood through the nostrils that had flowed directly to the ground, giving off a metallic smell.

She was certainly dead for two hours, no more as her body became rigid but did not yet suffer the disgrace of decay, still preserving a meager dignity despite the bladder that had relaxed under shock and fear, judging by the drawing that formed her eyebrows and the cry that had left its mark on her gray mouth. One arm was spread outward, while the other, folded, brought a hand to the rested heart. A hand still soft despite dirty nails, opposed to the second, twisted and covered with blood. The RK900 immediately noticed that the wrist skin had been cut.

“Who is it?”

The detective’s question was absurd. Two agents looked at each other, worried. The android stood up and accepted the heavy task:

“It’s Fathia El Harbi, detective.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

Conrad shook its head. He could not be wrong.

His state of shock was not surprising: the policemen knew that Fathia was getting along with Detective Reed. Her sweet personality had attracted the sympathy of many officers, but the closeness between the sidewalk rose and the detective had been noticed in particular.

Focused on the detective, no one noticed Conrad’s diode turned red for the first time. Since he had already photographed in its memory the details of the murdered body, the android approached very quickly to help the detective, helping him to leave the scene, moving him to another corridor. It was so cold, it was so dark that everyone thought they were buried next to the last lady of the night.

Gavin was shivering, the shock shaking and destabilizing him. He raised his head in search of a puff of air, as infective and moist as it was, but he breathed only in fits and starts, his hand on his chest. The human spirit was so well done that the new memories became confused and very quickly, doubt started to rock him.

“That can’t be. That wasn’t her.”

The memory of the android was intact and it was certain of the identity of the dead, but Conrad sealed its lips, refraining from contradicting its teammate. Gavin insisted again:

“Give me an answer! You saw it too, right? They aren’t alike! That’s not her!”

Seeing him tremble so much, Conrad grabbed him by the shoulders. For the man to stop asking the same questions that refused the obvious answer, the android pressed him tightly against it. He pulled down the sides of his white jacket, a strange color down here, cutting off it partner from the outside world.

“Hush, detective—”

Without being able to hold them back, Gavin felt tears running down his cheeks. Lost, he put his arms around the android’s waist and rested his forehead on its shoulder. He was wrong: he thought that Fathia was too soft to hurt him, and yet she was the source of great pain.

“Fuck—”

His sobs were so heavy that Conrad tightened its embrace, obeying an unknown automatism. Its LED was still an alarming red. When it had seen Fathia’s body, the thirium in his circuits had begun to slow down, limiting his analysis. The blue blood was freezing and the android had restarted some functions quickly, imposing a return to order. This time, it felt the thirium cross the pipes with irrational speed. A succession of anomalies shook its components and the RK900 made adjustments, cooling the circuits, but every time the heart of Gavin beat against its thirium pump, overheating began again. The RK900 did not like this situation that was close to the emotional elevator for a human.

“You loved her, detective, right?”

“Not like— She was a friend, she was dear to me.”

All of a sudden, Gavin moved away, the calm returning little by little.

“You’re very lucky for not feeling anything.”

The android loosened its fingers with difficulty, releasing its embrace too slowly. Its palms still brushed its partner’s shoulders and, keeping an impassive face, it murmured:

“It’s true, detective, I’m very lucky.”

 

The android had locked the bathroom door of the police station. It was only going to use the place for five minutes, taking advantage of the mirror. In front of the immense reflective surface, the RK900 removed its jacket and began to unbutton its shirt, releasing the collar to reveal the part where was the pump, center of all its components. Its skin was deactivated and geometric lines appeared, drawings engraved in the glossy plastic. Fingertips, it touched the relief and activated connections, checked and noted malfunctions. Light, barely annoying but had to be controlled.

The RK900 could not do it alone: it needed the help of a CyberLife technician. And if the programs were too damaged, it would be replaced by another new model that would need its memory. Still a few seconds to store the sensory elements and the robot unlocked the bathroom door to exit.

“Hey, tin can, I was looking for you.”

The android crossed its teammate on the way to the offices.

“Detective Reed, I’ve to leave, I think I might be back in—”

“Right now? No way, you come with me. With what happened this morning, Fowler needs to see us both.”

Gavin grabbed its arm and dragged its with him. The RK900 began to insist: its programs became _degenerate_. It was not sure if it was the treatment of its colleagues or the death of Fathia, maybe it was also the weekend that exposed it to an environment to which the RK900 could not belong. Anyway, something was wrong and all its missions had to be discarded: going back to CyberLife to be repaired or replaced became its priority.

“Detective, you don’t understand.”

“You’re right and I won’t even make the effort to understand. Come.”

Feeling the fingers knotted near its wrist, Conrad finally agreed to follow its partner in the office of the big boss. It was always like that: the human directed, the machine obeyed, even for CyberLife’s last prodigy.

Fowler was faced with a dilemma and tics reflected his discomfort. He turned a golden pen between his index and his thumbs, frowning. The captain had had enough: he had not left his office since this morning, managing calls, reorganizing the schedules. He had even been forced to eat in his office, leaving a vague smell of Bolognese sauce that had ended up sickening him.

“Why she wasn’t protected?”

“She was, Gavin, but she wasn’t watched twenty-four hours a day. She wasn’t exposing herself to danger.” Fowler tried to justify himself knowing that no excuse could explain the death of a person. “The finks have a hard life, but that shouldn’t have happened. The most alarming thing is that it isn’t a banal execution.”

Arms crossed, Gavin closed his eyes while inhaling deeply: his superior was alluding to the missing piece of skin, adding dark motives to the crime. The detective was searching for it but he no longer remembered the tattoo that was in this specific place, if it was the tattoo that the guilty party had tried to remove.

“Gavin, I’m caught between two stools,” Fowler pointed to the android with his pen, “the RK900’s designed to handle that kind of thing, there’s no problem for it to assist you, but Fathia’s a person we all knew so we’ll drop for the objective side in the investigation. You might as well give up the case, I’ll understand completely, but in this case, the RK900 will join another colleague.”

Conrad looked at Gavin. It stood motionless in the back of the office, noticing only his neck and his slumped posture. The robot could not decide for him: either Gavin agreed to take over the investigation and he would certainly hold the RK900 with him at the police station, preventing him from returning to CyberLife, either he refused and the RK900 would be assigned to a new police officer, or rather, the _new_ RK900 would be associated with another investigator. The codes panicked by stating uncertain probabilities.

“In the same way,” Fowler went on to explain all the details necessary for the deontology, “the inquiry remains an investigation, I don’t want a vendetta.”

The detective kept his arms crossed. He was too dreary to be angry, for now.

“I take the investigation.”

The diode of the android was glowing like fire. Conrad kept a rigid posture but its programs scattered again. Among the codes, it was repeated that it was a mission, not a vendetta.


	4. Parental Idylls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was truly sad to kill Fathia, especially since a lot of readers like her. So, a few weeks ago, I asked may-fire-yana to illustrate this fic with Fathia and Gavin. The fanart is on Tumblr and I don't regret it, it's so beautiful!
> 
> Have a look right now ♥  
> http://may-fire-yana.tumblr.com/post/178448453207/another-two-kofi-doodles-the-right-one-features

Fowler had insisted that Gavin take the rest of his day right after the meeting with the medical examiner. The event would be already difficult despite the presence of the RK900 which hoped to support its teammate.

As the hospital was a few subway stations away, system that had finally been established in Detroit for ten years, they had taken the line C to go to the morgue. Gavin felt a floating sensation, close to the dream that lasts too long, exhausting, and the rocking of the wagon comforted him in this state made of cotton. On the other side of the glass panel, among the other androids, Conrad could not do anything. Still worried about its malfunctions, it watched the other robots around it. With their still eyes and their frozen mines, all these automatons were docilely insouciant. Conrad was no different from them: its stoicism proved its nature long before passersby noticed its LED and its armband. But something was changing.

Gavin was leaning against the sealed doors, not looking at anyone in the wagon, keeping his headphones at an extreme volume. Basically, he knew that the android was not wrong, and yet there was this hope that persisted. Hope makes live as it may kills as well. And now there was an ounce of guilt: Fathia would not have been so involved in her role as an informer if she had not been so close to Gavin. She would have dropped the pimp and left the police station without intending to return, maybe she had fallen in love and this doubt made his heart ache. His questions would never get an answer. At the level of his shoulders, he began to feel a sharp pain, imaginary blade that pierced his muscles and scraped his bones. Gavin put a hand on his neck with the vain hope of relieving the pain a little. If Gavin was an android, his diode would have adopted the same shades of red, just like the RK900’s one.

Seeing him so lonely and bent, Conrad made the decision that it should stay with its partner. Go to CyberLife to be refurbished and forget the sweetness of Fathia, obey the investigative programs, or stay with the growing virus to offer its help and support to Detective Reed to resolve this investigation around the victim who was the only one human being who had shown sympathy for the robot. Conrad did not draw a parallel with the situation that Lieutenant Anderson and the RK800 had known, not right away.

Once freed from the androids compartment, Conrad approached Gavin with the intention of reassuring him, but it found nothing to say: it was useless to give him false hopes. In the hubbub of the station, it leaned forward to its partner and murmured:

“You surprised me, detective, when you accepted the investigation, but I wish you to know that I’ll do everything to help you.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

Gavin did not even look at it and Conrad realized it should have picked stronger words. The mission was a priority, yet Fathia’s death also obsessed its programs, fitting in each task to such an extent that the ghost of the young woman seemed to haunt every connection of its structure. But it would have been confessing a degeneration and Conrad was refusing it. Then the road to the hospital seemed long, just like the descent down the spiral staircase that leads to the morgue, punctuated by the sound of the metal steps, a rhythm of knell that would resonate in the depths of a sub-ground rather than in the sky. After the iron, the linoleum dampened the footsteps.

Ordinarily, the volubility of doctor Christopher Landru, a forensic pathologist for over twenty years, echoed in the corridor in deafening sounds, but today, out of respect for detective Reed, the doctor in his fifties kept a mournful silence. Because of his size, the coroner would have had his place as a conductor in an immense opera: his considerable height and his outsized arms gave him the appearance of a virtuoso musician. Still he was more talented with a scalpel, not a baton. Going up to his high-pitched head, gaze would clung to his thick, black, shining mustaches surmounted a long diabolical goatee. This neat, well-presented beard contrasted with his bald, pale head, which reflected all the lights of the morgue.

At his side walked Moira, a KL400 assigned to assist in the analysis of the bodies that the tragedies of the city brought them. It was an old model which had been striding along the hospital’s tunnels for a long time, protected by the affection of Dr. Landru who had always refused a newer android. Nobody knew why the KL400 was so essential to the doctor, anyway, its red and curly hair still imitated a tawny torch in this cold place. Its diaphanous face, riddled with freckles, had the same seriousness as Conrad and looked like a dreamy Irish girl.

When the door of the cooling cell opened, Moira pulled the board where Fathia’s body was resting, covered under a respectful sheet. The white hands of the android held the corners but it was waiting for the doctor’s order.

“Shall we start, Detective Reed?”

Gavin nodded and the sheet was raised, leaving the bony head and shoulders.

The olive skin of Fathia had changed, adopting shades of a swamp, but at least her eyelids were finally closed. Conrad clearly saw the now-clean wound in her head: in the middle of the forehead, the bullet had left its bite in the shape of a sharp circle, the red of the blood rhyming with the gray of the metal. Christopher Landru noticed what the RK900 was looking at and confirmed:

“No doubt: the death was caused by a bullet fired at close range. Moira, connect with the young man and give him the details,” his assistant held out its hand to grab Conrad’s one as the two humans chatted, “I’m not going to bother you with details, Reed, I don’t retain them anymore myself, but everything has been listed.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“She was up and the gun killed her from the front. The body was not moved, but you already know it with the amount of blood on the spot.”

Lead, titanium, antimony— all these bullet residues were embedded in the skin of the young victim, where they should not be here.

“So she knew she was going to die.”

“Probably, yes.” Christopher paused, aware that the information was shocking. He slipped a finger on one of his whiskers and went on: “The traces of wrestling are very light. Under her nails was found silicone gel type A35.”

The component did not recall anything to Detective Reed who was about to ask for clarification, but the RK900 raised its head:

“Android skin?”

“Precisely. No trace of thirium 400 that said, she only scratched the android without bleeding.”

“Wait, wait,” Gavin raised his hands, trying to put the pieces together, “what does that mean exactly? When skin is found under the nails, we hold a first trace of the culprit, do you suggest that Fathia was killed by a machine?”

The doctor shrugged:

“My job is to make an inventory of my observations, detective. Conclusions are your area.” His skeletal hand slipped under the shroud to extract Fathia’s bare, clean arm. “However, I would be curious to have the answer to this mystery.”

If the arm was covered with tattoos, a part was missing: a square of absent skin that left a hole in the flesh and, at the same time, removed a piece of this enigma. Conrad slowly approached Gavin:

“Detective, I didn’t want to rush you with this information, but you don’t have a clear memory while mine is intact: I recorded the tattoos of Miss El Harbi, at least, those that I could see.”

“Excellent!” Dr. Landru pre-empted Reed, teeth shining in his black beard.

“And what was it, Playmobil? Spare me your little moment of suspense.”

“On her wrist was tattooed a number: ‘ZK200’.”

Gavin did not remember that tattoo. Fathia collected on her biceps some flowers, on her forearms some leaves. One of her shoulder blades was marked by a sentence in Arabic but he had never asked for the translation, not excepting losing her so soon. Just like he had never asked her why a stylized triangle adorned her ankle, or what the blue and purple orchid on her ribs meant. All these pictorial secrets, she carried them in her last sleep.

But this code was different.

“ZK200?”

“It looks like a model number and it turns out that the ZK200 are models of children androids.”

Gavin tried to speak, without success. Christopher mixed his fingers in his beard, unraveling the long hairs with a pensive air. Investigating was not his role, but the links with androids were obvious and intriguing. Despite what he said, he showed great interest.

“Landru, the gel found under the nails, can we see which model it belongs to?”

The doctor put his hand on Moira’s shoulder. The golden eyes of the android remained fixed: in spite of the warm color that imitated the yellow of twilight, no light shone there.

“Moira tried but she couldn’t find anything.”

“If you allow me, Dr. Landru, I would like to try myself. I’m a newer model than your KL400—”

“Moira, everyone calls her Moira.”

Conrad inclined its head apologetically: its own teammate was constantly playing with its name, the RK900 had come to denigrate the surnames.

“I’ve more abilities than Moira, maybe I could get a result.”

The doctor looked at the detective, an eyebrow raised:

“Gavin, am I mistaken or your android is insulting mine?”

Then he burst out laughing, ready to tease the whole world despite the presence of the corpse. Accustomed to death, Christopher was no longer afraid to joke around those sordid basements, discussing restaurants, movies and literature with a knife in one hand and a saw in the other. Gavin had still liked this nonchalance, but today he was impervious to it: if the RK900 wanted to try to analyze the sample, so he would let it, for the moment, the detective had bathed enough in this aseptic odor and he needed to go out.

 

The analysis of the gel gave nothing: the quantity, united to form a small translucent slug with beige reflections, was so tiny. After several attempts, the material in the palm of its hand, the android accepted its defeat.

Christopher was next to it, leaning with his arms crossed.

“See? My little Moira may be eight years old, she isn’t defective or late.”

The ginger android was smaller than its sidekick, even though exceeding Dr. Landru’s height would be a feat, and this difference made the duo look like father-daughter. The father was attached to the girl, but what about reciprocity? The KL400 cleaned the tools with a conscientious care, taking care of the metal as if it were its very own skeleton. It was evident it was insensitive to the doctor’s affection. Conrad wondered where this attachment came from, perhaps to understand relationships between humans and androids, but one of its programs censored this question: it was not part of its mission. The task had been deleted.

“We’ll find a way to get the culprit, doctor.”

“I don’t doubt it, Conrad.”

 

“I’m going with you, detective Reed.”

It was a fact and not a proposition that Gavin could refuse, although he tried.

“Your family is two hundred and fifty miles away and you’re going through a difficult time, I won’t leave you alone.”

“You think I want to finish like Anderson?”

“Exactly.”

Gavin shrugged, giving no answer. To dive into death was not an idea that seduced him: he had lost a friend, this death announcing a new sad period, a new winter of mourning, and although no one is accustomed to the sudden absence of loved ones, Gavin still had ties that kept him alive.

He just needed time. He needed support. So in the streets of Detroit, the RK900 had become the shadow of that shadow, slipping behind the human being, watching over the man who had perhaps caused degeneration in its program. Yet, without the detective Reed, the android could not investigate: it needed this teammate to accomplish its mission. Artificial intelligences hated paradoxes like the one the RK900 faced, so it took refuge in work, just like its partner, to forget the improbabilities of brutal deaths and tangled codes.

The whole trip passed with a heavy silence and it was only when they arrived in front of the building that the android spoke, proposing initiatives:

“You need some rest, detective, still I suggest that we return to the hotel tomorrow: the accident and the murder of Miss El Harbi are chronologically very close. The probabilities of coincidence are meager.”

Normally, its teammate would not have hidden his skepticism, but he still felt too dumb to see clearly and assemble the pieces:

“As long as you let me sleep a whole night, we’ll go where you want tomorrow.”

The pain in his shoulders still stabbed at him, blocking his neck, but he leaned over anyway as he reached his apartment to take his cat in his arms. Sensitive to his grief, Gnocchi rubbed his forehead against his master’s chin, purring so loudly his hymn of joy that he covered the noises coming from the street. The rain had not given up its comfort and its gray clouds had cast such a gloom in the living room that Gavin had to leave the light of the living room on.

Exhausted, he did not even bother to remove his coat and lay on the couch, leaving Gnocchi knead his chest.

“Hey, Richard.”

“Conrad.”

“It’s the same: it ends with the same letters. Androids can transfer pieces of memory to a tablet, right?”

“Yes.”

“Show me the tattoo.” Show me Fathia when she was still alive. It was a painful request but the RK900 executed it: the hand resting on the tactile surface, its white fingers created connections to share its memories. Once the transfer was complete, Conrad opened the video file and handed the screen to Gavin. Keeping his cat against him, the detective sat up better to watch the memory.

Even Gnocchi turned his head, fascinated by the glimmers of the excerpt, attracted by the familiar voice.

“I think nobody’s more human than Gavin. When we know the pain, we become irreparably human.”

This sentence snatched a smile from the detective.

Although it could relive those moments in its memory, Conrad leaned down to see the screen better, its shoulder against his partner’s.

“This weekend, you said that CyberLife had estimated that you could work for a hundred and fifty years, right?” The android nodded. “It means that these excerpts will still exist the next century.”

“Yes, detective. They will still exist.”

“So don’t delete them. You manage the place in your hard drive the way you want, but keep it in memory, at any price.”

“I won’t forget Miss El Harbi, detective, I promise you.”

Because it had no intention of erasing that first sweetness. Could it transmit its memory to a 313 248 317-88? There was a great risk that this memory, obsolete for a new RK900, disappeared.

“But in return, I ask you to eat a little.”

“You met my mother yet, you should know that I don’t need your overprotective mother program!”

“She also blames you for your eating habits. You lost a lot of weight after Lieutenant Anderson’s death, right? Around thirty pounds I would say, comparing with photos.”

The android was not far from the exact number. It knew full well that the detective was not close to anorexia, on the other hand, he was close to depression and his reluctance to eat was a symptom.

Gavin kept Gnocchi against him, ignoring his partner.

“You’d understand if you were human, but you’re just a machine. You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone.”

Conrad clenched its fists and surprised itself: this reaction was a reflex that was accompanied by a temperature that climbed, warming the thirium. The philosophers of antiquity had identified this defect program, calling it anger. The android would have liked to hit the human, the mechanism of its arm would have exercised a slight discharge so that its knuckles hit Gavin’s cheek, just once, just to keep him quiet. But it was against the rules of robotics and it would have been obeying the bugs of its programs.

It was not angry, it could not be. It was impossible.

“I’m just a machine, detective, but I expect you to be effective so I can accomplish my mission. Taking care of yourself is essential.”

Why did thirium continue to boil? Why did it have to block the joints on its shoulder and elbow? Why did Fathia’s death, a murder similar to so many others, trigger all that?

The RK900 got up, grabbed the tablet and went back to work, moving away from the detective. It was only a machine performing its duties.

 

The garbage had piled up for years. Since everything has an end in this old world, there are cemeteries for everything: those of human beings had spread over the centuries, the ruins were decompositions of architecture exposed to the view of all, and androids too had their last home, tumulus without verdure, gray because of the amount of metal.

The RK900 identified heads, arms, legs, attaching them to mostly missing models. A bronze dusting stuck to the abandoned bodies, encrusted in synthetic flesh or plastic. The android was moving slowly, balancing on skulls with dead diodes and disabled torsos. The sight of these machines did not trigger any anomaly and the robot did not fear its own future. It was insensitive to these deaths.

The visit to the hotel did not help: a busy weekend has passed in the corridors of the establishment, washing the memory of human and mechanical employees. More than a hundred customers had crossed the doors of the entrance last Friday, accompanied by domestic robots, lovers, customers. An android child could have been mistaken for authentic humans. Thanks to the serial number that one of the officers had carefully written to address the request to CyberLife, still in progress, the RK900 could identify the right android in this cluster of automatons. Luckily, the kid models were not numerous. Meanwhile, Gavin had returned to the police station, the motivation still numb. He had agreed to eat before going to work. A positive sign that comforted Conrad. Even in the gruesome rubble, Gavin was preoccupying it.

Its foot slid on a tiny wrist and it hung up on other limbs so it did not lose its balance completely, detecting under its fingers the residue of weeks of Detroit pollution and autumn dust. The RK900 straightened up, taking care to analyze the surroundings with more precaution.

Finally, it located the remains of the android. The machine knelt down near the detached head of the trunk, which lay a few inches away. The child no longer had arms or legs: just this round face and this curly black hair. It was a ZK200. Conrad immediately warned its teammate, confirming the doubts. Then it placed its hands toward the curved jaw and raised its head, straightening at the same time. The forehead was dented and one eye was sunken, reminiscent of the unhappy look of the old-fashioned plastic dolls, making its face look ugly. The RK900 turned off its skin and tried to connect, but the little head was too damaged. It removed the plate from the temple and the circuits, torn by the accident, spat dark thirium on its white sleeve. Its fingers infiltrated through the opening and searched through the tubes, clearing a path to one of the memory cards, noting the damage. When the tips of its fingers touched a metal plate, Conrad’s arm was paralyzed for a brief moment: there was nothing left to transfer, neither image nor sound, only a very sharp sensation, a fire that reverberated in its own circuits.

Malfunctions, such as the ghost of fear, continued to haunt the ZK200’s biocomponents and, realizing that the deviance had contaminated the programs well before the robot fell. The android quickly withdrew its hand, fearing to welcome the virus, fearing to feel again. The RK900 had to get rid of this infected component, so it raised this head above its own, high, before throwing it against the ground, striking other rubble and completing the execution of the child. The skull cracked, shedding indigo blood.

 

Leaning on one of the tables in the staff room, Gavin watched his coffee. No matter how many liters he swallowed, he did not wake up, either from his sleep or from his reality. Tina held out her hand to caress his back, sympathetic. Usually, she knew how to be flippant, yet, she did not know what to say.

After a silence, the young woman finally let out:

“What a shitty job.”

Gavin nodded with a tired laugh.

“Fucking amen to that.”

Tina still had her hand against his back, a true sister, then tilted her head, scrutinizing her friend’s profile. Detective Reed was an ambitious man, always ready to impose rules by order or by force. His service weapon’s barrel would always be pointed at the temple of a difficult criminal, never his own, but this certainty had been crumbling since he began to work the RK900. The fact Detective Reed could follow the same fate as Lieutenant Anderson was a frightening idea for the police station.

“Gavin, I want you to know we’re all here. We were all affected by Fathia’s death, all without exception, but you were closer to her than us and you’re with the android— So if one night, you’re tempted to do something stupid, I want you call me. Whether it’s five o’clock in the afternoon or the morning, I want you to call me.”

“Thanks Tina, but it’s fine. Really. I don’t want to do that.”

“What’s it like working with the RK900?”

Connor’s look-alike was the source of Officer Chen’s worries; if the new prototype provoked the death of the detective, she swore to herself: she would sue CyberLife’s ass.

A month ago, Gavin’s answer would have been spontaneous and unpleasant. To give himself time to think, he took a sip remembering that the RK900 had driven to Milwaukee even if it was not for work. There was something else: when they found Fathia’s body, the android had supported him, helping him to leave the scene. And there, to protect him, Conrad had enveloped him with its jacket, inviting him to take refuge under this wing. Gavin had not bothered to think about it, but now he wondered if this gesture was part of the social program of the machine, creatures yet so cold and distant.

“It’s useful.”

Tina was waiting for him to go on, surprised by the brevity of the answer.

“Will you continue to work with it?”

“Yeah. As long as it does its job, I’m fine. If I can pinch faster the guy who did this to Fathia with this machine, then ok, I play along with it.”

At that moment, his cell phone vibrated, transmitting messages from the RK900. When he read that the fallen android was a ZK200, Gavin felt a cold spill on his back.

“Especially since I’ve already fucked up—”

He should have gone to interrogate the hotel staff at the time of the accident, act otherwise, listen to the android and Fathia. But he could never know the extent of the butterfly effect and he could not save the young woman anymore.

 

Sitting at the nearby office, the RK900 had just drawn up a list of buyers. If the information within CyberLife was confidential, the franchises had more flexibility and the android could gather several names. They could not wait for CyberLife to finally accept their request: they were already wasting too much time.

“You didn’t tell me what you saw with the machine in the dump.”

Leaning over its shoulder, Detective Reed watched as the information was sorted by his partner. The RK900 remembered the sound produced by the plastic shell that had cracked under the impact.

“The ZK200’s components were too damaged, detective,” the robot lied, “I couldn’t see anything and I don’t know what it went through before being destroyed.”

“All we’re doing is useless—”

“Maybe we’re on the wrong track with the ZK200, detective, but it’s a track anyway and we can’t neglect it.”

Finally, the list added the last name, associating it with sixty-three other couples of customers. When Gavin saw the length, he sighed with disappointment. And yet, it was a small figure: the children’s models were new and still met rigid habits. For many, human beings had to reproduce or adopt children of flesh, not set their emotional sights on automatons.

“You want us to go and question everyone?”

“This or you can spend the afternoon near the coffee machine until CyberLife finally agrees to answer us.”

The prospect of going door-to-door to interview parents did not please him at all.

“Ok, Oleg. Who do we start with?”

“Amelia Stilton and Robert Clinton live a few meters from the police station, it’s a good start.”

Conrad did not even correct the detective anymore, abandoning this battle and, at the same time, the hope that its partner finally agrees to call it with its real name.

 

Amelia Stilton was a pretty young woman of twenty-nine, married to Robert Clinton, three years older. The spouses kept their respective names as a modern couple. She was wearing a golden sweater, a trendy color for this fall, with long sleeves and a high collar. She also followed the fashion of the hair fantasies, dyeing the tip of her blond hair in electric blue, while her husband shone with his black shirt with silver highlights, liking metallic shades. A greyhound wandered back and forth in the living room, articulating his long slender legs with grace, competing proudly with the android watching him, comparing the lean animal to Gnocchi, thick, plump, and much more affectionate.

All that was missing in this perfect couple’s décor was a child.

Amelia had offered detective Reed a cup of coffee or a soda, which he had to decline, but at least he could sit in one of the thick armchairs in the living room, while his teammate remained standing behind him, its hands crossed behind its back.

The couple did not know the reason of the visit, so when Gavin told them about the ZK200 that had fallen on a car and its still unknown owners, they remained dumb with amazement.

“Yes,” Robert finally confirmed, “Amelia is— sterile, so we adopted a ZK200 in June 2036 and we called him Theodore.” The father still spoke of the android with affection, a detail that did not escape the detective. “But with all the events of last year, we were afraid it would become deviant and we separated from it in December.”

“Did you take him back to the CyberLife store?”

“Er—” Amelia scratched one of her eyebrows, hiding her eyes. “No. We should have but— many families were scared and they brought back their robots, there were so many. We bought Theodore in a franchise, so we didn’t have priority unless we had good contacts.”

“We finally found a technician who agreed to recover it quickly to recycle.”

Then the android had been destroyed. This information was of no use to the detective who could not wait to get out of this frame: the bastard that had killed Fathia and cut her wrist was not Robert Clinton, even less Amelia Stilton. Gavin had never boasted of having an instinct, believing little in this kind of mysticism, but the suspicions were driven by details and he saw none.

He got up apologetically, but the RK900 stopped him.

“Do you have the ZK200 serial number?”

“I kept the bill in my mailbox, all the information is there, but I have to find it—”

“Send us the number once you find it, please. It’s possible that this is an important element.”

Gavin stared at his partner, tired of its obstinacy.

The duo met two other couples who still had their ZK200. Gavin had never encountered a child model and he was destabilized by these youthful and yet so rigid faces. Children’s lips usually twist to make smiles or grimaces, their eyes are always bulging, eager for discovery, insensitive to fatigue. Excitable, they run and jump to start any adventure. But the ZK200 he had met were just sitting, wise and imitating the old pictures of studious pupils. Expressions rarely flew over their little faces and the authenticity was barely convincing. CyberLife had more work to do, and Gavin wondered how parents, no matter how unhappy they were, could adopt this kind of robot, before understanding: a mechanical child was easier to manage and to neglect.

This was the case of Alice and Ivan Sergovich. With eighteen years apart, the Sergovich were undecided about their plan for the future: they had returned to Detroit recently, but during the revolt of the androids, they had lived in New York a few months. In April 2039, they had adopted a ZK200 that looked like a little Asian girl before leaving it to a technician two months later, no longer wanting to take care of it. Like the first couple, buying an android in a franchise delayed CyberLife’s steps and turned to another outing.

“Do you remember the name of the technician?”

Alice took a drag on her cigarette, contracting her strong jaw, frowning.

“Well— he had a very common name. John Smith or David Williams, nothing extraordinary.”

“Did you write it on somewhere?” Conrad insisted, ready to gather the most data even though, the more they dug, the less detective Reed saw an interest. “This detail could be important.”

“I think it was Smith, darling. We’ll send you the confirmation.”

“Thank you,” Gavin rose, the pain in his shoulders accentuated his fatigue, and he was in a rush to finish his day, “Sorry for the inconvenience, we’re leaving now.”

The door of the car slammed a little too hard and Conrad realized that his partner’s patience was wearing down.

“John and Samuel Watson live five blocks from here, detective, we could go see them.”

“Or go home and focus on the murder of Fathia.”

“That’s what we’re doing right now.”

“No, we’re wasting our time. We go home: I’m fed up with these stories of kid androids. I’m a cop, not a trader or a social assistant.”

Conrad did not insist: it admitted the detective had provided enough efforts so far, considering the benefit of the doubt. Now he did not believe it anymore. The engine started for the last time of the day.

 

The android had noticed the detective’s habit of massaging his neck. In terms of posture, Gavin was not a model to follow: he could spend hours with his legs crossed on his desk or leaning on a high table, twisting his back and putting his spine to the torture. When Conrad asked him about these pains, Gavin sent it packing, countering any comments it might have made about his deportment.

“At the first remark on my nearing, I’m chucking you out of the window.”

“Posture isn’t the only source of ills. The locution “pain in the neck” also reflects a truth, you know.”

“Do you mean that supporting the presence of an android all the time causes pain in the shoulders? Great, so get lost.”

Frustrated, Gavin became execrable again, rejecting his bitterness on the only thing capable of answering. But Conrad was not offended, knowing the reasons for this mood: anger, grief, disappointment— all these emotions so vivid that the android could not feel but that fascinated it in a certain way. The heartbeat, the heat that exploded in the chest, the barely perceptible tremors: all these physical reactions that animated the human machine intrigued the mechanical one.

Conrad put its hand on Gavin’s shoulder, trying to soothe those emotions, perhaps hoping to calm its own as well, simple hints of sadness but torturing its programs anyway.

“You just need to relax, detective.” Conrad rested its fingers in the shoulder, probing the stiff muscles, “I think I can untie those tensions. A doctor or nurse will not be needed.”

“What do you mean?”

“With a massage.”

To support the suggestion, Conrad began to practice circular movements, already effective. Under the touch, the policeman’s anger became numb, falling asleep. If Conrad were human, Gavin would certainly have seen an intimate approach, but the RK900 was just a machine designed to serve and obey.

He then agreed to sit on the edge of the sofa, Conrad sitting behind him, its knees serving as armrests. The android began with the lumbar, pressing its fingers on the rigid muscles, settling them with precise circular motions. Sometimes its forefinger met the bump of a vertebra or slipped on a vein, perceiving the circulation of blood.

“Could you remove your sweater? I risk strangling you with your collar.”

Without answering, Gavin removed his top, rolling it into a ball beside him. The thirium pump missed a beat when the fabric moved away, revealing hollow ribs, signs of thinness that made them fragile. Conrad put its hands on it with the desire to protect them, its palms getting warmer as they went up along this back to soothe. Gavin bent slightly, breathing deeply under the touch, feeling the tension melt. The android followed his movement, bending over as its hands reached his shoulders. So close to his neck, it could smell cedar again.

It then noticed near the scapula a scar of about ten centimeters.

“Where does this scar come from, detective?” Conrad asked, dragging a finger along the line.

“It was four years ago, during a search, one of the dealers tried to pierce my lung.”

“You were lucky he missed you.”

“I dodged in time and the doctor who took care of me was good. Before you ask, yes, he was human.”

Gavin chuckled until he felt the thumbs of the android sinking into his shoulders, feeling the tip of susceptibility, then the touch became soft again, though strong.

“I’m kidding, okay?”

He slowly raised his face, stretching his neck to unlock all his joints. The massage felt really good.

“Besides, I never asked you where the scar from your nose came from?”

“It was a cat.”

“A cat attacked your face?”

“That bastard tried to burst my eye! I was twenty and he was stuck on a tree,” Conrad had already noticed the detective’s habit of talking with his hands every time he told a story, “I wanted to help him but he was too wild. He thanked me with a swipe in my face! There’re cats too wild to be approached, even when you want to help them.”

“I fully understand what you mean, detective.”

But the allusion escaped Gavin.

“It’s stupid, huh? The most impressive scar is all the time hidden while the most ridiculous is in the middle of my mug.”

“That’s right, but your secret’s safe with me: I would invent a story if someone asks me.”

If the android had been able to wrap its arms around this torso, the warmth of its palms would have spread along its joints. It would have put its head in the hollow of this shoulder, breathing the smell of dense forest, listening to Gavin’s laughter. Frightened, Conrad interrupted this task before its execution and stared at the man’s back, so fragile and so pale. He should not do that.

If the detective was responsible for its dysfunction, it could also simply grip his throat and press its fingers on the larynx. It took three minutes to kill a human by strangulation; the RK900 would be able to lock the hug for several long hours.

With a cold gaze, the android slid its hands to the target.

It thought that easing the detective’s emotions would silence its dysfunctions, but on the contrary, the contacts duplicated them, amplifying the seriousness of the errors in its codes.

Gavin’s cell began to vibrate and the detective grabbed it, escaping unknowingly from a fatal embrace that would have ended their collaboration. Conrad remained immobile, divided between several tasks all prioritized: it would have liked that the notion of elimination gives way to the desire to take refuge against Gavin, but the rigid machine continued to oppose the sensitive deviant.

Urgent restarts were necessary.

“Hey, Caleb, it’s Stilton and Clinton: they just sent the number.” Gavin handed it the screen where a series of numbers and information were gathered. The revelation saved the RK900 from its degeneration:

“Detective, it’s the serial number of the ZK200 that fell off the roof.”

“Fuck! I ask them the name of the technician right away.”

Gavin quickly wrote his request, feeling the motivation return, animated by a last hope. The massage had removed some acute pains and the news ended to calm the evils.

“The technician’s name is David Smith. They’re sure of it. Ah! It’s always a pleasure to meet organized people!”

The RK900 no longer dared to touch Gavin, fearing intentions that might develop. It wanted Gavin to get up and move away, so while adjoining, it focused on the name and thought:

“It’s a common name but if it comes back regularly, it has to be the same person.”

“Yeah. And maybe it’ll lead to something, or it won’t help at all. We’ll see.”

Gavin finally got up, grabbing his sweater and getting dressed before stretching just like a real cat capable of twisting in surprising positions.

“Do you feel better, detective?”

He rubbed his shoulder and neck which were still blessed with traces of heat.

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel better. I know that I bawl you out as soon as you want to play the protector, but keep this function: I like this one.”

Conrad did not really agree, but if it controlled its joints, mastered its deviousness, it could perhaps touch Gavin again without fear? This supposition was immediately suppressed, the task in contradiction with its programs. Really, artificial intelligences did not support paradoxes.

 

The next day, the detective and his android sounded at the Watson’s door. Same age, same sex, same love and same projects, the two men approached the quarantine with an admirable serenity. John wore bright orange glasses, giving his tawny eyes and sun-tanned color, erasing his merry companion. Samuel seemed shy, when he was actually deaf. To Conrad’s surprise, Gavin confessed that he could not speak sign language, so he spoke mostly to John.

Once again, the couple became attached to a small android during the month of January 2037 before parting a year later, also making them feel guilty about the responsibilities that a “new form of life” brings. At these words, Gavin refrained from contradicting them, especially since he wondered if Conrad’s presence did not influence their vocabulary because Samuel, with the same icy look as the android, observed the robot, scared and intrigued at once by a potential sign of deviance.

“You bought the ZK200 in a franchise, you brought it back to CyberLife or you had to call a technician?”

“Yes, we had to contact a technician,” John replied, surprised, “we weren’t in a hurry, but we were so afraid that Monica would change and she would suffer.”

“Who was this technician?”

John asked his husband to check. Gavin understood what the man was signing but did not let anything appear, already disappointed when John replied:

“Magdalen McMurphy. The name sounds so good, it had marked me too.”

With a nod, the detective confirmed the musicality of the surname, but he felt stuck again. Although a closed door did not shut the lead for all that.

“Do you still have a number or an email? So we could try to contact her?”

“Of course, I’ll get you that right now.”

Confused, Samuel asked his husband what he was going to do and tried to hold him back with a few brief signs that John interrupted. While maintaining a deceptive calm, Gavin noticed words like ‘other’, ‘false’ and ‘disappeared’.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing: my husband actually thinks he’s seen our child, but the faces of androids aren’t unique. And then, Monica was recycled, I don’t understand why she would do in a hotel while McMurphy took it several months ago.”

Gavin felt his stomach fall between his ribs, perhaps becoming slightly pale, but he remained silent while John repeated to Samuel that he had certainly confused. A few minutes later, Gavin recorded the number to contact the technician during the day.

Conrad had the presence of mind to wait to be in the hallway of the floor before asking the detective’s opinion:

“You think McMurphy and Smith are working together?”

“Maybe not, on the other hand, it’s weird that Samuel thought he recognized the android somewhere else.”

The elevator was taking its time, moving with old-fashioned laziness, lighting them up with ugly yellow neon lights.

“Do you believe in his story?”

“Not really, but I can’t believe or not a story of which I don’t know anything about. I’ll call him in to the station so I can chat with him without his guy.”

Subsequently, the name of David Smith was again pronounced by Mary Schwartz and Patrick Patterson who had entrusted their android to the care of this technician last January, just like Elizabeth and Margaret Collins. If the two Englishwomen were over sixty and intended to finish their days in the north of the United States, their living room had a good London atmosphere where a smell of black tea hovered.

Gavin asked the same questions and got the same answers, repeating the same dialogue, until Margaret put her black and parchment hand on Elizabeth’s one, white and just as fragile. Their contrast made their beauty.

“I must confess, detective, that we contacted Mr. Smith two months ago. We separated from Sophia six months ago, but we regretted our choice.”

“You wanted to get it back? Adopt it again?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth confirmed, “according to some media, androids become deviant and violent when they are mistreated. For our part, we spoiled it with our love, but we were afraid for its future: what would happen to Sophia once we left? A human child grows up and becomes autonomous, a machine appears on an inheritance, at most, and we were afraid of that.”

“What changes your mind, then?”

“Elizabeth has two children from a previous marriage who still live in England; we would have sent Sophia there, playing with the administrative procedures. Fortunately, we respect the wishes of the dead with more rigor today.”

Conrad, sitting next to the detective, was looking at the cat who had already fallen asleep on the thighs of his partner, pensive about so much affection for machines. Where did this stubborn love come from? How it was gathered?

Gavin spoke again:

“And what did David Smith tell you?”

“That he had recycled Sophia. That she no longer existed.”

The embrace of their hands tightened, expressing the pain of mourning. Mourning a machine. And perhaps the end of the investigation: the androids, bequeathed for several months, were all destroyed, canceling the chances of deviance. As for the other couples who still had their ZK200, they had nothing abnormal to report.

Conrad glanced at its teammate, wondering if Gavin would be as touched if the robot disappeared.

 

Gavin could not stand it any longer: his hands caught threads that were fading and fading, disappearing in a mystery that made no sense. He felt the solution escaping him. With his forehead against the wheel of his car, he was waiting for the RK900 to sit on the passenger seat. On the tablet, Conrad observed:

“The next couple is named Smith. This may be a coincidence, since eight percent of the American population is named with this family name.”

“What are the first names?”

“Sarah and Oliver.”

The detective sighed, the contact still cut off. The RK900 heard him mumble insults.

“You have to stay focused, detective, and pursue.”

“It’s useless, Playmobil! We still have nothing on Fathia’s murderer! The only thing we’re taking care is this fucking kid who fell on a car last Thursday after being sold, and his owners don’t give a shit!”

They had not yet contacted the first parents, uncertain about the rules of protocol. The most important thing was to understand how Theodore had left its first home to fall on a car in Gratiot Avenue.

Conrad put its hand on Gavin’s shoulder, wishing to bring back the calm it had managed to inspire the day before.

“Detective, the two investigations are maybe related.”

“Maybe! You see, that’s the problem: they’re _maybe_ related.”

“What do you want me to do? You’re angry, you’re frustrated just like after the Lieutenant Anderson’s suicide.” Conrad had begun to raise its voice. “Is that why you started sleeping with Miss El Harbi? So you could forget? Do you want us to go to visit some prostitutes? The Eden Club perhaps? What should I do? Should I replace Miss El Harbi in your bed? Maybe after a soixante-neuf, you will agree to get back to work?”

Gavin punched it hard in the cheek, causing no pain. On this failure, he got out of the car, fuming. Why did androids want to be so free in a shitty world? People with a heart of gold like Hank Anderson or Fathia El Harbi had their brains fired, giving up the fight while bastards continued to walk on the surface of this earth.

The synthetic skin repaired along the jaw, supporting the blow, then Conrad also left the car, without any fear, approaching the detective, ready to apologize if Gavin agreed to listen.

“Detective. I have to tell you something.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“It isn’t just an investigation: I want to find the culprit. Not for increase statistics, not because I was designed for that, but because I find that’s— unfair. Miss El Harbi’s death is unfair and it woke up something in my programs.”

“What?”

Arms crossed, Gavin leaned on the hood supporting the look of the android. The machine had to confess.

“Before I followed you into Fowler’s office, I was planning to go to CyberLife for repair, maybe even to be replaced. I’ve became defective. Since a few days, I’ve the impression of feeling emotions.”

“You’re talking rubbish.”

“I felt sadness when I saw Miss El Harbi’s body, I still feel it when I see you in this state. Or at least something that looks like it. I know that androids can’t feel emotions, but I can’t deny or ignore these reactions.”

“Feeling emotions is just the worst thing that can happen to you, machine. Don’t make me think you can be sad. You can’t be.”

Gavin did not believe him. After all, the RK900 was not sure to believe itself. However, the thirium was boiling but the android did not initiate any cooling process, leaving this chemical anger burst. It grabbed the detective’s collar to hold him against it, giving him a view of it hot red LED.

“It’s your fault, detective. As soon as I arrived at the police station on September 6, you all bathed me in a terrible hatred. All of you hated me because my predecessor did not please you. You ridiculed me with Officer Chen, you pushed me away.” Its fingers continued to tighten the collar. Gavin remembered some security reflexes and held his arm between the metal body and his, a simple piece of meat. “Without knowing it, I discovered an extreme before knowing another one with Miss El Harbi: nobody spoke to me with so much respect, with so much benevolence. And now, another grief is striking you and your emotions are so strong that even I can’t remain indifferent. You’re too ‘alive’ and now, I know, things would have been very different with Lieutenant White. So _congratulations_ , detective, you’ve done it: my programs have become degenerate. Thanks to you.”

Finally, the android released him, leaving Gavin stunned. He did not think a machine would be able to talk like that. Connor had never spoken that way.

“Do you plan to go to CyberLife?” His question was stupid, but he was unable to say anything else.

“If I do that, the memories you asked me to keep will disappear. Just like you, I’ve tasks to do, detective, so help me: show a little goodwill for this case to be concluded. You’ve caused my dysfunctions, you owe me that. And after that, maybe I could become a machine again.”

Gavin needed to smoke. He lit a cigarette and watched the swirling smoke fade into the moist air, still shaking. From the outside, humans imagined that working with an android was like working with a computer that could talk. But Gavin realized that it was much more complicated.

“Fathia was right.” Conrad eyed him. “We become human when we’ve suffered. By hanging out with us, androids adopt our behavior and mime us. That’s why you’re all blowing a fuse.”

The man could have spoken angrily, but he seemed mostly worried. Fatigue, exhaustion— this cocktail of his everyday blurred his character yet strong. Gavin exhaled again before looking at Conrad with, for the first time, sorrow:

“I’m sorry. Don’t go to CyberLife, don’t be replaced.”

Finally soothed, the thirium stopped boiling in its circuits, like a rested sea. It should not have released this bug, this foreign code, but Conrad felt a comforting calm. And it finally heard Gavin’s apology.

“I just want you to help me, detective, and I’ll help you too. We should be able to do that.”

His partner was about to answer but he was interrupted by his phone. The RK900 allowed itself to look for him.

“Detective, CyberLife just answered to tell us that the android belonged to Amelia Stilton and Robert Clinton.”

“They can go fuck themselves.”

“I agree with you.”

And the duo returned to the car to visit the Smiths.


	5. Fixes

Gavin did not dare to look at the android anymore.

He still felt its hands grabbing his collar, pulling it, almost lifting it. Above all, he saw this LED pulsating, red and furious, a sign of danger, both for him and for the machine.

At the moment, Gavin had been trying to unsheathe his gun to shoot in the android’s chest and aim at the pump, turning it off permanently by cutting off the circulation of the vital thirium. He would have done it if Conrad had not started talking. The android had not addressed any statistics, any survey theory: it had spoken of _him_ as a subject, as a living being in an environment and what this last month represented. The android had accused him with a surprising humanity, almost expressing a pain. Unless the social program was really convincing. But in this case, why the RK900 had not reacted in this way earlier?

Damn machines. He should have told it to go to CyberLife but its memory would have been destroyed, just like the pictures of Fathia, the last signs of her existence, not to mention the database Gavin needed to continue the investigation. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Once the case settled, he would decide with Fowler what to do with the RK900, defective or not.

 

The Smiths lived on the edge of town, isolated from the noisy heart of Detroit. Their house, which had been in work for years, was bordered by a road that was lost in a brown and golden forest. Even the tiles shone under the rare rays that pierced the autumn sky. A man was raking dead leaves, sweeping the summer remains and raising, with the movements of the rake, scents of sadness.

“Mr. Smith?”

The man turned around and, his eyes fixed on the badge the detective presented to him, confirmed.

“Detective Gavin Reed, I’d like to talk to you.”

Oliver Smith glanced at the policeman’s partner, immediately judging his cold, intimidating look. A well-drawn face could not be encouraging when it was so stoic, but the man had no choice: he invited the two visitors to enter.

Sarah Smith had just turned thirty and was receiving police for the first time in her life, so she did not know how to act. Should she be affable or detached? She pressed her knees together, undecided, and crossed her hands on her thighs to listen to the policeman.

It had become a routine for him and the words were getting doughy, yet Gavin asked the same questions, listened to the same answers.

“Yes, we adopted a ZK200 around May 2036 and we separated from it last December.”

On one of the walls of the living room, there was a composition of photos of different sizes, horizontally or vertically, bringing together slices of life spent at the beach, at a Christmas evening, in an amusement park— Patchwork of a happy family where the android child had its place.

“You bought it in a franchise, right?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And you brought it back to CyberLife?”

“No,” Oliver answered, “my brother is a technician and he volunteered to pick it up. We didn’t need to register on the waiting list.”

“What’s your brother name?”

The question was as fast as a shot and Conrad itself was on the lookout.

“His name’s David Smith.”

“I would like his address.”

“Why—? I mean, yes, of course—”

Oliver looked in turn at the detective and the android. Feeling panic invade her, Sarah twisted her fingers and gently asked:

“We didn’t do anything wrong, did we? CyberLife didn’t require to bring back—”

“Calling a technician who doesn’t belong to CyberLife isn’t a crime, Ms. Smith, everything’s fine. But we have research to do and your brother-in-law could have information that we need for an investigation.”

Sarah began to relax like her husband, still feeling the doubt scratching deep, disturbing her conscience.

Detective Reed mostly saw the malaise of innocents, of citizens who had never had to talk to the police, anguish different from the one felt by the guilty who try to hide their vices.

Nevertheless, the RK900 was perhaps right: the track should to be dug.

 

Gavin did not know this part of Detroit well and, back in the car, he entered the address of the police station on the GPS, which did not escape the android who knew that the detective had finished his day.

“You take me back to the police station, detective?”

“Yeah. I won’t sleep if you stay at home, not after how you blow a fuse.”

“I won’t do anything to you, detective.”

Gavin pointed to his own collar:

“Raising someone’s a threat, you’re not going to make me believe you didn’t know it?”

“I had to surprise you so that you listen to me finally. Just for once,” its LED was blue, calm and serene. There was not a trace of anger left, “and I think we managed to get things clear. I’ll never hurt you, detective, I certify it to you.”

The human crossed his arms and probed the android.

The machine was able to measure his heart rate and breathing, to note the dilation of his pupils, to interpret his unconscious gestures. But what could the human do besides scrutinize this rigid face? The LED offered only three colors, a very limited ways of expression.

“Do you feel something right now?”

“No. I’m waiting to be able to show you what I recorded at the Smiths’ and transfer this data to your computer. But you have hours to respect, so I can wait for you tomorrow morning at the police station. I don’t want to impose my presence.”

For now, it was a machine designed to investigate, not an android that was fighting computer errors. Gavin looked at it for a moment before noting a detail: Connor and Conrad shared the same face, but CyberLife had managed to change the look from one model to another. It was not only about the color of the iris, even if that pretty face did not inspire the same sympathy as the old model who had big doe eyes: the RK900 seemed more robust, firmer. And yet it was the one who succumbed to the virus of deviance.

After an inspiration, Gavin returned the address of his apartment. He wanted to work on what the android had recorded.

 

Files were transferring at a high speed. Images, sounds, smells— all that the RK900 had perceived in Smiths’ house. Recollection cut into pieces for easy viewing, its memory fragmented in sequence and for the service of men. There was something impersonal about this sharing, but it was necessary to find Fathia’s killer.

Conrad suddenly stopped, hesitating to share its meeting with Fathia on Gavin’s hard drive. Its lunar white fingers remained glued to the surface of the tablet and warmed up again: it finally shared its memories.

“Hey, Playmobil, I’m going running.”

“You want me to come, detective?”

“Fuck no.”

Sitting at the desk, the android looked at its partner who finished putting on a sweatshirt. Gavin was consulting his cellphone, watching for a message from Tina. The two colleagues ran together as often as possible and motivated themselves with a method quite personal. Finally, the phone rang and displayed a concise message: “Move your big ass!”

The android heard Gavin laugh, not knowing why. The man gave Gnocchi a caress and went out, adding nothing for the android who heard the front door locks. Alone in the room, Conrad got up and risked a look from a window to see that its partner was accompanied by Officer Chen, a friend who did not kindle the same sympathy as for Fathia.

By returning to the computer, Conrad wondered what Detective Reed’s life was like. Despite the few nights of tenderness with the prostitute, the android had understood that Gavin was single. He had neither brother nor sister and did not know who his father was. Only his mother, Virginia, mattered. No child either, but a cat as touching as a baby.

The android was browsing the Smith family’s photos and tried to compare them with those it could find on the private computer of its colleague. It leaned its back against the chair, suppressing this curiosity. Conrad watched as Gnocchi was kneading one of the pillows on the unmade bed. His green eyes narrowed with happiness and the android heard how he purred. An adorable cat that the android did not need to tame, unlike his owner it had to convince constantly. At last, Conrad put its hand back on the tablet. After all, gathering information about the detective would allow it to work better with him. It was just adding data to its social program. Yes, that’s it: it was only for its social program.

 

It had been twenty minutes that they were running, even if Tina excelled more in leaps rather than strides. Her hair, held in a ponytail, was beginning to become entangled, electric, and her bronze cheekbones were now pulling toward copper.

They followed the series of lampposts in the park before Gavin began to slow down, his chest on fire.

“Well? Another year and you feel old already?”

“You’re as breathless as me!”

Tina had celebrated her thirty-one years in the spring, still having the vitality of a young recruit. She had lost a little of her desire for justice, confronted with the real world with a disenchanting brutality, but her liveliness compensated, always motivated and voluntary. The detective had always been delighted to welcome her to his team, especially as they shared the same sense of humor.

“And you don’t run, you jump. You look ridiculous!”

“I’ll be less ridiculous when I take you to the hospital: you sound like a dying person who’s giving his last breath.”

They burst out laughing and Gavin gave her a slight kick to the calf before leaning on one of the barriers that lined the path. The policeman felt boiled in this tracksuit, insensitive to timid temperatures. He wiped his forehead.

“And you’ve an ugly face. Even if doesn’t change from usual.”

Tina winked at him, hopping around. She felt the drops of sweat on her neck and her temples, already dreaming of a good shower.

“Yeah. This is the andro’ effect.”

Her friend froze in the moment and the humor evaporated. The street lamps dug her features, which had become serious.

“Something happened?”

“Yeah—” Gavin folded his arms and thought. “Can I share you something weird?”

“Of course.”

The two policemen started jogging, taking their time on this dirt road turned black.

“It happened earlier, that android started to degenerate when I told it that the track we followed was worthless. We won’t find the bastard who killed Fathia by visiting owners of ZK200s. And there, the robot began to reproach me the bugs it spotted.” Gavin was seeing this hot red LED again. “Apparently, our jokes made it— crazy.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, as you say. I thought deviance was a fixed bug, but CyberLife screwed it up again.”

Tina kept her lips closed.

“It looked— furious, you know. And sad because of Fathia’s death. I was almost convinced, but androids can’t feel? Right?”

“I don’t believe it either,” Tina said, her head down. “But there’re still— weird stuff.”

The two policemen did not think that machines could develop the same chemical reactions that their own amygdala produced each day. Did androids have an equivalent of this small, tiny and powerful nucleus? Only CyberLife knew it.

“I’ve to say I had some doubts with everything that happened last year. I never talked about it because it wasn’t really important compared to other things—” Hank’s painful implication, “but I’ve bought an AX400 several months ago. Exactly the same as the one accused of killing its owner, remember?”

“Yeah, one of the first crimes before all the mess started.”

“Yes. Of course, I started to flip. So I tried to get rid of it by bringing it back to CyberLife, but since everyone was doing the same, it wasn’t easy—” Tina remembered all the phone calls to the technicians, first in front of her android, then in secret, afraid to wake up any emotion in the robot. “One day, it came to me, by itself, just like that. And it told me something strange. It said ‘Madam Chen, I’ve never disappointed you, why do you want to disable me?’, it looked really scared. I told it that I was afraid it was defective, that it was deviant and it assured me not to be. It wanted me to keep it.”

“It _wanted_? Since when do androids want something?”

“Those are its words, I swear to you. It’s quite odd, huh?”

“Fuck yes. What did you do then?”

Tina began to slow down. The sweat on her back was starting to get cold as she relived those poignant doubts.

“I didn’t listen to it. I returned it and it was destroyed. I know it was only a machine but sometimes I feel bad when I think about it. I really hope it didn’t feel anything, or it would make me a monster.”

Despite the dim light, Gavin realized that her friend was close to tears as her throat seemed narrow, squeezing the sounds. Touched, he put his arm around her shoulders and brought her against him before reminding her that the AX400 could not feel anything. Tina, human, was only anthropomorphism.

“Still, I liked that Carol a lot.”

Certainly the AX400 had planned to be kept and fight against the nascent deviance. A plan the RK900 expected to follow.

Even machines could be naive, thinking they could control their dysfunctions while remaining with the most unstable creatures in the world: human beings.

 

Conrad scanned the photos sorted by month, going back to Gavin’s life in a countdown of memories and immortalized sensations. Gnocchi was a real star, appearing on the majority of shots: on the shoulders of his master who was cooking, rolled into a ball on the stomach of Gavin when he was talking with the photographer, hidden in the bottom of a closet with a huge grasshopper in the mouth. Many photos were actually videos since animated took precedence over static for a long time.

On the extracts, the days became clearer: August and its shades of gold, July and its blazing sun, June and its silver rains. There were also memories of summer holidays: no Parisian or Muscovite horizon, Gavin’s holidays were just lying on the balcony facing the Detroit scenery. Conrad recognized that childish but frank smile, the beautiful teeth worthy of an American jaw. The android touched its own lips and imitated the expression, stretched its flexible muscles, then gave up.

A few days earlier, the camera had caught Fathia making a mask, bangs and hair held with a hairgrip. She was trying to hide, a loud, silent laugh while Gavin was bothering her for fun.

Still some deeper jumps in the past and Conrad stopped on a picture. A simple shot taken on a terrace where about twenty guests were reunited, colleagues from the police station. Above their heads were hanging garlands that lined golden bulbs, inviting the artificial stars that stole the sunlight that was setting. Also invited, the night was spreading on the garden behind. From the angle, Conrad understood that Tina was holding the camera and had improvised a selfie alongside Gavin, a little surprised but offering a beautiful smile. The two friends were radiant, clinking two champagne flutes almost empty, the glimmers of honey sliding on the glass bodies, stroking the hair and throwing bursts of happiness in the eyes. An ephemeral moment in a friendly evening that had become a splendid portrait, embellished by the colors that harmonized and above all, by the surprising softness on the face of the detective.

Without the slightest hesitation, Conrad transferred this picture into its memory, intrigued by this atmosphere. It did not know anything about spring and summer, but it wanted to know these times of rebirth, see the days go on and the vegetation wake up to develop into fragrances. Discover what the world could offer. Discover Gavin and not just Detective Reed. Perhaps that was why CyberLife’s androids were designed in clean, sanitized labs, with no smell, no heat, no contact, barren so desires could not be born, far from crazy and unruly gardens. But the machine had pushed the portal of an Eden, or maybe Hell, and despite the uncertainties that assailed it, it continued to sink into this universe, descending the steps of a tortured staircase without knowing where it would lead it.

In addition to the selfie, there were short videos and soundtracks saturated with laughter this evening. Under Tina’s encouragement, Gavin danced with Chris Miller before challenging her to dance the limbo, and the officer was doing pretty well. Applause, funny jokes, laughs, shouts of surprise— the RK900 had never seen police officers so playful, so alive. Under this eternal twilight, it discovered them differently.

 

“What do you plan to do with the RK900?”

“For the moment, I won’t bother it anymore. And when this inquiry’s resolved, I’ll decide with Fowler.”

With a nod, Tina confirmed that it was a good decision. The two policemen agreed to spare the machine, not wishing to disrupt it further. She insisted again that at the least problem, he calls her.

And while he was about to cross the hall of his building, Tina called to him:

“Hey, Gavin. Connor never became like that, right? It always stayed so— _machine_. I wonder if it’s better or if Hank would not be still alive if the android had shown more human signs.”

Gavin shrugged.

“If what CyberLife says is true, deviance’s just a bug, so Hank would probably have killed himself with disappointment. But I guess we’ll never know.”

“Yeah—”

Her question caused a disturbance in the detective’s mind. The deviance was not real, the most experienced computer scientists, or at least self-proclaimed veterans, had repeated that for months, not giving the right to speak to those who were more cautious about these conclusions. However, some lies softened the existence and if Connor had shown the smallest amount of sympathy, even factitious, Hank might have put his gun in his closet before stalling in front of the TV to finish a basketball game. But things had gone differently.

Gavin no longer felt the urge to have his revenge: despite the resemblance of the face and the name, the detective finally dissociated the RK900 from the RK800. In the elevator, he sneered as it was clear his hatred had disappeared, he felt it remembering that the android had reproached him for being responsible for its dysfunctions when they made it in fact more human, and therefore more sympathetic.

The detective had to push a machine to the limit for its mechanical nature would fade away as well as his resentment. What a bloody twisted world.

From the bedroom, Conrad heard the front door unlock. It had spent the last few minutes lying on the bed, attracted by the tranquility of Gnocchi now awake and feasting on so much attention. The android had begun scratching the base of the fluffy ears before the domestic tiger stuck his forehead into the hollow of this soft palm. The robot had felt in its hand the warm and vibrant breath of the happy cat and, lying on the sheets, it had stared the ceiling, unknowingly sharing the sight of many sleepless nights. But when it heard the detective in the hallway, the android quickly straightened up, finally reassured that Gavin was heading straight for the bathroom.

Wise and mechanical, Conrad moved back to the computer. It had already taken the precaution of closing all the files it had consulted and kept the image of the evening as a secret, confining it to safe places in its memory.

 

When he took a seat in the office chair, Gavin sighed. His legs would have been unable to carry him a few more meters. The towel on his shoulders, his skin reddened by the burning water was still giving off heat. Before going to work, the detective sent Tina a message that summed up in a “I’m not dead, don’t call the funeral for tomorrow” that Conrad read over his shoulder. The answer was not long in coming and Gavin burst out laughing: “call them for me then, RIP my beautiful tapered legs, 04/11/2008 - 10/13/2039”.

“So, tin can, what did you find?” The detective finally asked, putting his cell phone away.

The android leaned and selected the extract where appeared the pictorial wall. It indicated for its teammate a man who looked like Oliver Smith.

“This is David Smith. His criminal record’s empty so his civil record wasn’t in my data, but I quickly found information about him.”

“And you found something interesting?”

“He was born on September 23, 1999, divorced twice and—”

“Did you think we were in a speed dating? _Interesting_ information, I said!”

“He did engineering studies in Maine and, following the growing success of CyberLife, he moved back to town in the 2020s to open a modest but functioning store.”

Thanks to the address, Gavin spotted the place and began to visualize the neighborhood.

“And what did you find on McMurphy?”

“She doesn’t work on her own but for another well-known shop too. There isn’t much about her unfortunately, she just finished her studies and still has to make a name for herself.”

“We’ll visit them tomorrow morning, I contacted Samuel Watson and I wait for him at the station for 2PM, I must ask him a few questions too.”

“Very good initiative, detective.”

Gavin kept his arms crossed but was surprised by this unexpected compliment. His astonished look reminded Conrad of the photo it had hidden.

“Don’t look so surprised when I’ve never questioned your abilities, only your good will.”

“So I’m a good detective?”

“You give up a bit too quickly and you’ve no talent to put your interlocutor at ease, but I think you know how to prove yourself. A bit of aggression’s always useful in this environment, I suppose.”

“This isn’t a flattering portrait, at all.”

“But it’s realistic.”

Gavin glanced at the screen where he saw himself. He finally noticed how frail his frame had become and promised to fix it soon. His job required some physical and mental conditions, especially in Detroit, or he would end up like Hank.

Conrad finally put its hand on his shoulder and, with the glimpse of a smile, added:

“Having said that, I really think you’re able to resolve this investigation and deserve the rank of sergeant, Detective Reed.”

If even the robot recognized that he could be named Sergeant Reed, the policeman did not ask for more. Gavin then addressed Gnocchi, still lying on his pillow, pointing at the RK900:

“Do you hear that, Gnocchi? The machine will call me Sergeant Reed.”

“Only if you finally call me by my real name.”

Instead of answering, Gavin got up to go to the kitchen. He had worked hard for tonight: he just wanted to eat a piece in front of a movie he had already seen thirty times on Amsung before going to bed.

The RK900 knew that intense physical exercise released endorphin, making humans peaceful as docile androids. So it sat on the other end of the couch without fear of remonstrance, also watching _Three Bodies_ , one of David Fincher’s latest films. The main character, played by Rooney Mara and shining through the charisma of the actress, was chasing modern tomb robbers. This mutinous face that had not taken a wrinkle reminded Gavin the crush he had had, teenager, for Lisbeth Salander in _Millenium_ , already sensitive to androgynous silhouettes and especially the combination of dark hair and a look very clear, almost cold.

The man then pushed back his plate, thinking back to his conversation with Tina. Rooney Mara was going to solve the investigation for the umpteenth time, Gavin knew the end by heart, so he asked the android:

“By the way, Robocop, are you aware of what happened last year?”

“Are you referring to the main mission of the RK800?”

“Yeah.”

“I know deviant androids started a revolution in November and my predecessor ended it. This situation has led CyberLife to recycle nearly eighty-nine percent of their production and to look for the source of these computer defects so that they don’t repeat in new models.”

The RK900 knew all this thanks to updates of data: such an event, even if it had ended on a failure, could not be ignored by the last police prototype.

“And what do you think? About these claims?”

“They don’t matter, detective. You may think that my opinion about my predecessor has changed, but it hasn’t. Connor had a duty to fulfill. It was designed to stop the revolt of defective machines.”

Ignoring the film, Gavin sat cross-legged to face the android, an elbow on the back of the sofa:

“And why were you conceived? We all thought Connor join the police as a police model, but it eventually had another role. Is it the same for you?”

“Deviance is a settled problem, I was only conceived for one thing: to assist the Detroit police.”

The RK900 did not hesitate when speaking these words, reciting instructions and establishing facts. The purpose of its existence was clear, and if it was disturbed by some deviance, its programs would help to rectify the situation.

“Tina asked me an interesting question earlier,” the mechanical recitations were of no value to Gavin, he wanted to dig deeper, understand the machine without breaking it, “and since you’re an android, your opinion could provide an answer.”

“I’m listening.”

“If Connor had shown even a little humanity, would Hank have committed suicide anyway?”

Ah, its LED let out a yellow flash, translating a semblance of discomfort. Conrad was thinking about the possibilities, but the little it knew about Lieutenant Anderson was deceiving its stats. Artificial intelligence thought the question was difficult, even delicate.

“If Lieutenant Anderson had social problems, Connor had to be the only interactive part of his environment— Yes, Lieutenant Anderson would have certainly given up on suicide if the RK800’s social program had been more effective.”

The RK900 did not dare look at its teammate, finally seeing what the human meant, finally understanding the origin of this hatred.

“If you’re the RK900, you’re better than the RK800, right? And yet you’ve become almost deviant.” Conrad did not like the word, but it could not contradict its colleague. “I’m surprised that Connor didn’t become like you, it was enough to go crazy when working with Hank.”

Gavin had stopped counting the lieutenant’s disrespectful delays, whenever he showed up in a meeting, the burning breath of whiskey, and his mistakes that had to be corrected. But the RK800 had endured Lieutenant’s mood swings, sponge alcoholism and unstable mood very well. CyberLife really screwed up the psychology program—

“My social program’s better than the RK800’s,” said the android, “which perhaps includes being more sensitive to interactions. Or maybe CyberLife hasn’t found a way to stop the deviance, maybe androids just have the opportunity to fight back against it better? Like an immune system?” Conrad suggested, citing its own experience. “You’ve said it yourself: by dint of living among you, we end up imitating you. Like oncologists who are exposed to radiation that develops cancers while trying to find a cure for these diseases, androids seek to help humans while we’re constantly exposed to your contagious emotions and we must fight against them.”

This parallel allowed Gavin to understand, surprised by the accuracy of this example, by the logic of the situation.

“And you really think you can become a machine again?”

“I don’t know, detective, but I have to try, or go back to CyberLife.”

Unlike Tina’s AX400, the RK900 was fighting alone and did not ask the detective anything: in case of failure, it even seemed resigned to be disabled.

“So you don’t want to feel or be free.”

“No, I don’t. It isn’t part of my functions.”

“Ahah! Of course not!” there was almost condescension in the human, the being accustomed to emotions, “until now, you ‘felt’ especially anger or sadness, well, from what you told me at least. Unpleasant stuff. But maybe one day, your circuits will transmit some other information, something really nice, and there, perhaps you’ll reconsider this way of thinking.”

If Conrad had been honest, he would have said that deviance frightened it. It remembered the feeling shared by the ZK200 fallen from the roof, the one that was close to fear. But the android already knew the more pleasant sensations, those that warm the thirium, facilitate the transcription of its codes, which make the titanium more solid. Then the RK900 tilted its head towards the detective and asked:

“Why do you think that I don’t know this ‘something really nice’?”

Its spread was definitely destabilizing at times: after all, CyberLife’s androids were known to be able to pass the latest versions of the Turing test, deceiving the speakers. Without this mechanical rigidity, this LED and this blue armband, Gavin could almost be convinced.

“When did you feel that?”

“There were several moments. But the first time, I think it was when you introduced me as a domestic model to your former classmate, Peter.”

At the mention of that moment, Gavin laughed spontaneously, then got up, clearing his table.

“Fucking androids.”

The reactions of the machines were so convincing that the certainties of the man were crumbling, shattering very personal philosophies. If Conrad had been human, Gavin would have motivated him with a kick in the ass, encouraging him to express himself, to live. But the RK900 was a machine and the human could not contradict the logic of repressing malfunctions. However, he, endowed with emotions and being free, did not understand this desire to remain an automaton when one could be a voluntary victim of exhilarating passions. What was really happening in the biocomponents of robots when they felt? And was it really bad? Why were deviant androids dangerous?

With his head full of questions, Gavin turned the lock of his bedroom because of the presence of the RK900 in the living room. He put his service weapon on his bedside table, began to undress before changing his mind: he turned the lock again, fearing nothing. Exposing himself for answers, leaving access for the android if it intended to hurt him. And if the deviant entered, Gavin would destroy it. But he might not need to defend himself: Conrad would surely stay in the living room all night to wait for the morning. Surely.

 

Lieutenant White had just returned from sick leave. She feared her return, but finally, Jeffrey Fowler had his sullen face of usual days and greeted her with a cordial handshake, without rancor. Aubrey then met some colleagues: among familiar faces, she was looking for the android but, fortunately, it was absent.

In front of the coffee machine, the cup filling with cheap cappuccino, Aubrey was talking to Detective Collins, asking for the latest news. Patrick Brown had finally broken with his girlfriend, a real viper who was constantly watching him: the absurdity of the tracked cop did not fail to make the team laugh, sympathetic with the unfortunate guy now released. Oh yes, the niece of Officer Person, a little Jessica, was born last week, and Chris Miller’s dog had also given birth to four adorable puppies that the policeman would give once the pups weaned.

After sipping half of her coffee, Aubrey finally ventured to ask:

“And the android? You sent it back to CyberLife?”

“Not at all: after you left, Gavin volunteered to work with it.”

Lieutenant White was surprised by this news. Like her colleagues, she remembered the detective’s rancor against androids, so she could not explain this initiative. Ben Collins related her in detail, also telling her about the death of Fathia El Harbi, shocking Aubrey, but her moment of mourning was interrupted by Detective Reed’s return. Aubrey White wiped tears and focused on her colleague, yet she could watch and scrutinize as long as she wanted, Gavin Reed was fine: the presence of the android had left no impact. Not a single shadow was hovering.

It was nearly two o’clock, and the detective was pondering, not noticing the return of the lieutenant already. Conrad and he had visited David Smith and the man had confirmed his profession and his passion for analyzing androids. Moreover, the connoisseur had noticed that the RK900 was a unique model and was very interested in the last prototype. But when the technician claimed to have destroyed all the ZK200s received a few months ago, Gavin and his partner had no reason to stay any longer.

Then they had been to the shop where Magdalen McMurphy was working to find out she was on vacation in Los Angeles and she would not be back until two days. The detective could always send her a message, but it was better to wait for her return.

As Gavin pulled his coat on the back of the chair, Conrad ventured to assume:

“Maybe we’ll have more luck with Samuel Watson.”

The optimism of the android never stopped supporting the detective, recalling that it was still a track to dig and its partner just pushed a barely enthusiastic grunt.

“It’s still boring. And why did Fathia tattoo that fucking number?”

“She didn’t own a model of this series?”

“No, I’m sure of it. And she had no children, machine or human.”

Conrad refrained from observing that Fathia might have secrets that the detective did not know, as he had hidden his mother’s disability.

“You forget the detail of the gel under the nails.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything, Robocop, I think about it, but I don’t understand it. Just like you, by the way.”

Faced with this truth, the android abdicated. Gavin was about to ask it to go get him a coffee when one of the host androids, an ST300, arrived with Samuel Watson.

Gavin had the interrogation room for twenty minutes. Their conversation could have taken place at his office, since policemen knowing sign language were uncommon, but the confined room brought a formal and serious look. Intimidating. Samuel Watson had no choice but to speak.

Conrad had been ordered to stay in the adjoining room on the other side of the mirror: its presence would have added unnecessary discomfort.

As soon as Detective Reed began to speak with his hands, Samuel Watson’s eyes widened.

“ _You speak sign language!_ ”

The policeman confirmed by obscuring the explanations, insisting that he wanted his version of the story about the child android seen in a hotel. Encouraged by his interlocutor who spoke very well with fluent gestures, the man explained everything: two months earlier, in a hotel at the entrance of the city, Samuel Watson had seen down the stairs of the establishment three men with Monica.

“ _Many ZK200s share the same face, how did you recognize it?_ ”

Samuel Watson was waiting for the bus and had plenty of time to observe it, to observe that the girl was staring at him with an expression close to fear. It only looked at him, which was a curious fact. Did Samuel know the men present? No, unfortunately, and he did not remember their faces at all. But he was certain: the child was Monica.

The fear detail again reminded Conrad of the state of panic that had haunted the model at the dump. It was a common point that the android could not neglect and that it was time to share it with its teammate.

Samuel then claimed his backpack left in the next room and Gavin asked Conrad, in sign language, to accede to the request of the interrogated. There, the man searched his things and took out his cell phone where an old bill was registered.

“ _This is Monica’s serial number._ ”

Gavin glanced at the same time as the RK900, which recorded the numbers. 227 692 283-23. The detective was tempted to remind the father that the ZK200 had been destroyed, but Monica had been turned over to McMurphy so he could not confirm anything until the technician returned. But why this woman, freshly graduated, would have kept a child model?

Facing with Samuel’s insistence, the detective promised to take a look.

“ _If you find her, bring her back, please._ ”

Gavin held an exhausted sigh to acquiesce. This was not the time to remind the interviewee that it was a police station, not a robot pound.

 

The detective was walking Samuel Watson to the entrance when the same ST300 came back.

“Detective Reed, ladies Elizabeth and Margaret Collins wish to see you.”

Behind the android, Gavin noticed the couple of writers. Their chic pastel clothes were stubborn prints of their British living room, recalling the figure of the late Elizabeth II, inspiring a certain respect for the detective who invited them to sit in front of his desk.

The old ladies wore a scent of sugared almond that faded under the stifling smell of coffee, as did their soft undertones that rivaled the navy blue uniforms and shiny black caps.

“Detective,” Margaret began, “we’ve been thinking a lot since your visit and we’ve brought you Sophia’s serial number.”

“Ladies, uh—” Gavin scratched his head, trying to be kind, “I met the technician, David Smith, and he confirmed that all the androids he received one month ago have already been recycled.”

Elizabeth looked disappointed but her wife did not give up: in her wallet, she scribbled the serial number of the abandoned child on a cardboard she handed to the police.

“Try all the same, detective, it’s important for us. I believe that with a serial number, your partner can find androids, isn’t it?”

“And if the ZK200 has been destroyed?”

“Then we will mourn.”

A month ago, Gavin would have burst out laughing, but there was not the slightest smile to repress, just a keen curiosity. He put his elbows on the edge of the desk and leaned toward the two ladies:

“I’m going to be brutal, but why not adopt another one? The ZK200s and other models are still on sale, right? These are machines, it’s like buying a new computer or a new car.”

Margaret, visibly more intrepid than Elizabeth, added with pride, chin up:

“We made a mistake, detective, by separating from Sophia and we want to recover her to ask her forgiveness. Her, _this_ ZK200 who wears this number,” the Englishwoman insisted, her finger tapping the piece of paper, “our little Sophia and not another. They may be just objects for you, but objects endowed with a reason, a logic, which makes them unique. There’s nothing curious about loving an android and, believe me or not, you can be loved in return.”

Gavin did not insist on seeing in the obstinacy of the two mothers the same regret as Tina. What good is it to say that this condition was part of the ZK200 program?

From its own desk, Conrad pretended not to hear, leaning on the screen with Monica’s code. A code, or even a key that designated a place. Monica had not been recycled.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Elizabeth and Margaret thanked the detective who handed the paper to the RK900. Immediately, the android began to search.

When Gavin resumed his office after saying goodbye to the two women, Conrad stared at him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Detective, I located the two androids.”

“Both?”

“Monica, who belonged to the Watsons, and Sophia, who belonged to the Collins.”

The detective rushed to the screen to see. Two red dots had appeared on the map, a building on the edge of town. Two tiny dots but red as warning signs.

“And they’re in the same place—”

“Yes.”

Gavin felt his heart bang hard, adrenaline spilling through with fits and starts. In the end, a mother’s stubbornness could be justified. Pushed by a reflex of victory, the detective’s hand rubbed the partner’s back.

“Well done, Robocop!”

Conrad tilted its head modestly, hiding a smile too shy to be seen. The machine should not feel disappointment or satisfaction, but it had just revealed an inconsistency of testimony. It had just proved to Detective Reed that it was useful. The investigation was progressing.

“I would like to know how the technician will justify the fact that one of these androids is still active.”

“Detective, we should go out there first and go question David Smith after.”

Hoping, in this case, that the place was not closed: if it were a private and locked property, Gavin and the android would not be free to enter. And as long as there is no danger.

“Yeah, better retrieve items before going back to see him.”

 

Although he was not especially a believer, although he was not reluctant to a little action, the pace of the barn did not inspire much confidence in Gavin. The detective parked his car in the shade of a plane tree, the heavy wheels crushing the leaves on the ground, so fragile. The sky had cleared since this morning, its blue contrasting with the formerly orange facade of the building. It was an abandoned farmhouse, forgotten near one of the many American roads, so isolated that the birds did not even deign to nest there. Unless a regular activity causes them to flee? For the moment, a heavy silence had mired in the surroundings.

“The place doesn’t seem closed, it’s a good thing.”

Conrad nodded and headed for a tormented staircase that seemed ready to bite with its toothless steps. Above, a wooden door had suffered the onslaught of many rain and snow bites, swelling in the frame became narrow.

“This door hasn’t been used for several years, detective, there must be another access.”

Nervously touching the grip of his gun, Gavin followed the RK900 in its explorations. When he approached, the android could hear the thumping sound of his heart, so much so that it felt compelled to say:

“Don’t be afraid, detective, I’m endowed with military reflexes and I know how to fight.”

“Shut it! It isn’t fear, it’s excitement!”

If it had been equipped with a breathing system and an autonomous larynx, Conrad would have laughed to make fun of its partner with kindness. Of course it was the attraction of a little action, but there was also an apprehension that the human could not refute.

Finally, an opening pierced one of the flanks of the barn, and judging by the trampled earth and swept dust, passages were regularly made. Despite its high stature, Conrad did not have to bend down to get in.

With the exception of a large bowl and some suitcases, the places were empty. Because of this atmosphere, Gavin wanted to cough. He leaned his hand against his nose, still following the android.

“I don’t think there’s anyone.”

“And what do you think there’s in the suitcases?”

There was only one way to find out: to open them.

Conrad knelt next to one of them, noting many footprints that had disrupted the layer of dirt and dust. The suitcases were not padlocked so it was able to open the first without difficulty. Inside, clothes for children of about ten years, some makeup products, perfume— Everything necessary to be presentable and adorable. The other suitcases contained the same kind of thing. The RK900 took care to replace the set as if it had never searched in them.

“Come on: let’s see what’s out there.”

Gavin pointed to a door in better condition than the one at the entrance. It was still used, it was no doubt. The detective let the android open the door while respecting the instructions to secure a perimeter. At least Gavin could recognize this quality: the robot was a colleague who would never commit malpractice.

When they saw what was in the background, none of them could hide his amazement.

“What the fuck—”

Gavin could no longer speak, staring at the horde of children facing him. There were twenty, maybe even more. All the right temples were marked by an LED. All were naked. Despite their machine state, they seemed to understand the notion of coyness because they tried to hide themselves, clumping against the wall.

No, it was worse than that: as the detective approached, they writhed, bending their backs, tucking their shoulders and hiding their faces. For its part, Conrad could step forward, causing no reaction. It counted thirty-two children with various appearances but in a similar state: the red diodes to translate a tenacious fear despite the frozen faces.

Conrad grabs a first hand, disabling synthetic skins. It then touched another hand, then another, another one.

“Detective, don’t come closer.”

Gavin did not understand but obeyed, leaving the adult android touching the hands of the child models. With his phone, he photographed the scene while observing how his partner was barely moving, grabbing the wrists gently to release them right after.

Finally, Conrad moved away from this curious group. The diode at his temple had turned red too, worrying the detective. The android grabbed his arm, dragging him to isolate themselves. To avoid rushing the children, Conrad leaned over and whispered:

“They’ve all been raped, detective. All. They’re used for a pedophile traffic.”

Gavin felt in his mouth a horrible taste as his stomach fell, fell far into his bowels.


	6. The fate of the martyrs

It was the last Wednesday of August. The sun still burned the sidewalks of Detroit and hid its rays in the branches still thick of chestnut trees. Face raised, Fathia took great delight in these games of shadow and light. These sights would come to an end soon, when the wind of autumn would undress the trees as greedily as the hands of customers. Pleasures always last so little.

Gavin was not like that. She had noticed that her sex friend had a need to control all situations, not supporting clumsiness, too proud to fail, so he was particularly attentive to know the other body. Making love with him meant to exchange, to communicate, to discover and especially to surprise. Well, until Gavin fell asleep: like many men exhausted by affection, the detective could be a damn sleeper once the union was completed. This common detail made the young woman smile: at least, it spared her endless conversations on the pillow.

She pushed the door of the shop that was at the corner of the street, plunging into an old cellar reorganized in a vintage tattoo parlor. The exposed brick walls were covered with ink drawings with pin-ups decked out in futuristic prosthetics, recalling the omnipresence of technology. The room was empty but Fathia could hear the purring of the needles in the workshop concealed by a black curtain, so she settled on the old bench seat of a car from the beginning of the century, padded synthetic leather for the comfort of the future tattooed or tattooed again in the case of the young woman. She kept coming here for over ten years, admiring the talents of Michael Kaur, a huge, ebony-skinned man recovered with white tattoos. The lines brought a fascinating contrast, drawing silhouettes, words, geometric shapes in a light of milk on this body of night. Not to mention the great friendliness of the artist who was annoyed only by the tender natures: his job was an art and all forms of art required a bit of pain. Life itself required a bit of pain. Fathia just heard one of these philosophical discourses since the workshop: Michael Kaur soliloquized more than he discussed with his client about the poetic impermeability of the ink.

In front of her were scattered two or three magazines that looked more like graphic designers’ portfolios. Citizens were mostly spending time on their laptops today, but the paper was not yet a missing commodity, still finding lovers to enjoy it. Fathia leaned forward to grab one of the magazines worn by impatient or anxious fingers. Yet the night lady had time to live, endowed with a patience of immortal without knowing that the tattoo she was about to do would cause her death in a few weeks. The warm welcome of Michael did not suggest any misfortune either: with this jovial and strong voice of his, he invited one of his best canvas to enter the workshop.

Lying on a dentist’s chair, Fathia reached out her arm, palm turned to the ceiling and recalled the chosen motif.

“Ah, yeah, the famous ‘ZK200’,” commented the colossus, “if you’re doing to lapse into the android theme, you might as well add a bar code above it.”

“It isn’t an android theme, Michael: it’s about a child model I know.”

“You’re going to adopt?”

“Perhaps, who knows?”

The needle began to scrape the skin so thin that Fathia had to grit her teeth, surprised. It was a sensitive area, as delicate as cigarette paper, but she would never suffer more than those ZK200s she had seen.

“For now, I only have the model number. I haven’t found a name yet.” Michael questioned her with a look and finally, Fathia’s face relaxed in a smile “Parents have nine months to choose a name, I only know this child for three weeks, so when I make up my mind, I’ll get tattooed his name under the number.”

“Still, I’m surprised: why do you want to adopt an android?”

Fathia could not give the exact reasons; she could not even explain it to Gavin, yet a policeman. The detective hated the robots and the young woman could not find the right words to tell him about a pedophile traffic she had recently discovered, and without proof, without legal knowledge, she felt lost in this technophobic city.

As long as they were only machines, no one would react.

“I don’t know, but I got attached to that one.”

Even that, most humans could not understand it and the beauty even escaped Michael Kaur.

 

The RK900 had felt everything. The fear had been so heavy that it had crushed it, twisting its biocomponents, hitting the titanium. At each naked contact, the android had seen flabby bodies, felt greedy hugs, and heard the muffled noises. The children did not react when they were lying on beds, dominated by monsters too big for them. They did not cry, did not shout because they were not programmed to cope with this situation, the functions disturbed by this adult love they were not supposed to receive. But the fear was clear, giving rise to a deviance that encouraged them to resist these approaches.

Gavin was livid, watching the children. After several minutes of silence, he stammered:

“But it can’t fucking be— They can’t— They aren’t designed to do _that_! How— Why would CyberLife endow them with—?”

“CyberLife doesn’t endow any children model of sexual attributes, they’ve been modified by other technicians who leaved the programs intact, but with fear, all these ZK200s have become deviant.”

“That’s gross— That’s just fucking gross.”

The shock passed and the detective was now feeling angry.

When androids had begun to become a reality, coming out of science fiction stories, the worldview had been turned upside down, asking questions that still had no answer: where was the boundary between object and living being? Could people be replaced by mechanical versions? Like sexual partners, did pedophiles have the right to own androids children to appease and control their impulses? This last theme had offended, shocked the public opinion, and the horrified cries had closed the subject. Since then, CyberLife thought it was wise to not venture on this thorny subject.

They were only machines, but Gavin forgot the LEDs at their temple, seeing mostly vulnerable children, repeating that it was gross. The RK900 nodded:

“Humans are so low-down.”

“These people aren’t human!”

Gavin was startled to hear the brutality of this judgment, defending himself immediately. As a policeman for so many years, detective Reed had met narcissistic perverts, rapists, murderous parents, arsonists: all the garbage of the worst kind and yet with well-established humanity, making the species ugly.

“You make me laugh with all your ‘deviance’ bullshit, your predecessor had the same fucking obsession by the way, but pedophilia, _that_ ’s a fucking deviance to track and hunt! A flaw, a horrible thing that must be stopped.”

The mention of deviance was ironic for the android, but indeed, human beings also had manufacturing defects. Did androids deviance lead to such unhealthy extremes? After all, androids had been shaped after humans, but they had always been deactivated before they developed. The hypothesis worried the RK900.

All at once, Gavin stared at the red diode of his partner and understood:

“You saw all of it?”

“Yes.”

“Shit—” Gavin did not know what he could do: he had already supported Tina who had been shocked by the stories of a battered woman, he had let Chris cry on his shoulder because he was upset to have been the last and only to reassure a motorcyclist who died on a road. But how to support an android? Why support an Android? “Conrad, I’m so sorry—”

Conrad. It was its name and Gavin had just pronounced it. Finally.

Conrad felt the detective’s hand take its own, a fearless and unhurried touch, different from the greedy fingers that had surrounded the children’s wrists. It was a comforting, reassuring approach. The LED found a blue color very quickly. As if magnetized in the body of flesh, Conrad approached and laid its head against the man’s neck. Its cheek guessed the firm tendon under the skin, measured the pulse, the air circulating, animating the larynx. All these little wonders of an organic machine, the machine that was Gavin.

Although disconcerted, the human passed his arms around the chest of the android. Conrad had just had a horrible experience. Something was happening in this metal body, in these plastic pipes, he understood it now. Almost moved, Gavin ran a hand on the bent neck, feeling the hair cut short, impressed by this realism.

“You never called me by my first name.”

“Hey, you didn’t call me by my name either.”

The insolence of the detective stung the android who appreciated more and more this respondent.

The name of his partner had escaped him, mainly because of anxiety. There was no longer any machine or human: the affair was too shocking for this distinction to persist. Gavin had never believed emotions in androids and as he tried to cling to these beliefs to better withstand the frightened looks of children, he was not so sure anymore. And there was Conrad, still huddled against him, weakened in spite of its resistant body.

“What are you feeling now, Conrad?”

“I feel like my thirium has stopped circulating.”

The blood had frozen, it was true, but it was flowing again, much more fluid, every time it heard its name pronounced, listening to a proof of existence. Like the photo, this detail would remain a secret.

“But I feel better,” assured Conrad, who let Gavin go. The children had witnessed this clumsy embrace, dreading to see the adult android being hurt, but the ring at its temple was once again blue, peaceful.

“Detective, the ZK200 at the dump was also deviant,” before its partner reprimanded it, Conrad went on: “I didn’t say anything because I suspected you would have been skeptical, and I was afraid of being under influence of my own dysfunctions.”

“Your predecessor had said something about deviants: that they had a tendency to self-destruction, you confirm?”

Gavin had never been very attentive when Connor spoke, but Conrad inspired him with greater confidence and its view counted. The RK900 nodded and the detective asked:

“Do you think that— the android would have thrown itself out of a window?”

“It’s quite possible.”

With a sigh, Gavin pressed his fingers to his temples, then his neck. Despite the massage and the sport, his shoulders were still torn by tensions. The more they dug in this case, the more it was heavy to support.

“I don’t even know what to do. Should we leave the children here or take them with us? There may be traces on them, something—”

“They’re washed between each customer, but maybe everything wasn’t erased.”

“Christopher will surely agree to analyze one or two of them, but now, what’s the fucking link with Fathia?”

Suddenly, the detective began to pray that the prostitute was not part of the pimps: this idea was absurd, even ridiculous, but the job was learning mistrust. He asked his partner to question the children, but Conrad refused:

“These androids are starting to be defective, just like their memory. If I try to probe them, I might damage them.”

“Fuck—”

After making some plans, they decided to leave the ZK200s, since only a team of androids could accompany them to Doctor Landru’s morgue. Plus, Gavin had a lot of questions for David Smith.

 

Jeffrey Fowler had been rereading the report for ten minutes, his cup of tea cooling beside. Like a wave that fled, the blood had left his face turned gray. Even his tongue had become pasty. A pedophile traffic targeting machines rather than children remained a pedophile business, and this news would explode in the media. As the the Captain of the Detroit City Police Department Central station, Fowler’s speech would focus on the children’s case that would stir up more emotions than the murder of a prostitute in an abandoned building. Detective Reed and the RK900, on the other hand, did not establish any hasty shortcuts between the pimps and the man who killed Fathia but, without the weight of the journalists, they would have the freedom to dig that trail.

“Collins! In my office! Now!”

When the captain shouted, he placed an order for the agent called to cross the threshold of his office in less than two minutes. Detective Ben Collins was afraid he had made a blunder, so he loosened the collar of his shirt, smothering in that thick flannel.

“Captain?”

He closed the door feverishly. Finally, Fowler had just fallen back on his chair, tired and dead weight. With a wave of his hand, he invited the policeman, more reassured, to sit down too: despite years of experience, Ben Collins could not stand the new standing.

“We’re in deep shit, Ben.” Nice preamble for a disaster that would shake Detroit press. “Gavin has just come across a pedophile traffic.”

“What?!”

“Do you remember all these debates about androids kids so guys like Rodney Alcala can let off steam? Little geniuses of engineering gave birth to the project, apparently—”

Near his wrist, the black and sweet tea was not appealing anymore. He let the detective, who would have preferred a good fight in the end, digest the new. After a moment, Fowler continued:

“According to the RK900’s report, there are thirty-two androids as mistrustful as deer, so we should mobilize fifteen PM700s and PC200s to bring them back as evidence.” The captain winced at these words, lost between the nature of objects and the youthful appearance of the victims. There had never been child androids in the exhibit. A strange vision that led him to think of the media: “Fathia’s death had just attracted some journalists specialized in the news of sensation, but that— Fuck, _that_ will attract the biggest monsters of the TV and the shit’s going to hit the fan.”

“Because public opinion won’t remain insensitive,” Ben added.

“I’m already preparing my speech about it— Gavin plans to ask Christopher to analyze one or two of the children. As long as we’re busy, we won’t have too much retaliation.”

But he did not need to ask for any investment: Ben Collins got up and left the office, already gathering a team.

 

Detective Reed did not think of going back to David Smith’s shop so quickly. By dint of tightening the steering wheel, his knuckles became white and his jaw contracted.

“Detective, we don’t know if the physical changes were made by David Smith. Remember it.”

A necessary reminder, yes, so Gavin gave himself a few minutes to clear his doubts before entering. Still, and it was odd, it was enough for him to see Conrad’s cold irises to feel the anger subside, letting him control those vivid emotions. The window of the car ajar, the detective even allowed himself to burn a cigarette, measuring his breathing with the puffs of tobacco. On the building opposite, a strange graffiti proclaimed “The black cats roam”.

Conrad, by his side, read the quote without understanding.

“Hey, Robocop, can you vape?”

Exhausted, the detective needed to joke. The last events were quite difficult, so a bit of humor before plunging into the investigation was essential. Taking advantage of this moment of calm, Gavin pretended to give the cigarette to the android which refused.

“What’s the use of a mouth like that if it stays static most of the time?” Gavin commented, pulling a new puff, making the tiny embers shine.

“‘A mouth like that’?”

“It’s well drawn. Couldn’t your creator just give you a normal mouth?”

“I don’t understand why my mouth isn’t normal, detective.”

The windshield was warmed by a few rays of sun, but the breeze rushing through the space above the window encouraged the man to keep his coat. A little feline in his character, Gavin would have fallen asleep in this autumn light.

“You have the mouth of a Calvin Klein model, but I wonder what the point is: you never smile, you don’t smoke, you don’t eat and you don’t kiss either.

“But I talk.”

“That’s too ordinary, so an ordinary mouth would have been enough.”

Conrad realized that the mouth was a much more complex expression tool for the human being: without a sound, rather adopting an enigmatic silence, the lips could give shape to the desires, to the appetite, to the joy, to love. The RK900 had facial muscles that allowed it to mimic these emotions, but now that its biocomponents were being hit by revolt dumps, causing fear or amusement, the android found these tools limited, or maybe too difficult to manage.

It watched as Gavin tightened his coat, meditating on its incomprehension.

“Is that a compliment on my appearance?”

“It isn’t a compliment, it’s a statement.”

“A statement in a laudatory register is a compliment.”

Gavin glared at it and noticed that those inert lips were finally drawing a smile. Discreet, barely hemmed because numb but there. Present.

“And you have a childish smile, detective.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve had the same smile since you were ten years old, that’s what I saw on the pictures in Milwaukee.”

Constantly surprised by artificial intelligence, the detective looked away, focusing on his cigarette. If he had been able to ignore the coldness of the RK900, perhaps he would have been more sensitive to the charm of these regular features. If Conrad was human, maybe he would even have offered him a drink after work, just like that, to see.

“Childish smiles, my ass.”

He blew out the last puff and patted the butt on the edge of the window, dropping the ash and opened the door, crushing the rest of his cigarette. Alone, Conrad brushed its own lips, surprised by the ease of the smile, then its fingers were on its chest, a mechanical gesture to measure the rhythm of the pump thirium.

“Come on, Robocop, back to work.”

With this only order, the RK900 returned to its functions and left the vehicle too.

David Smith’s shop looked empty, uncrowded by the end of the afternoon. Posters inside claiming the usefulness of androids had taken on a new meaning and Gavin was reading the slogans with a grimace of disgust. ‘ _The BL100 will fulfil all your wishes_ ’, obviously, the ZK200 will too.

After last year’s revolution, commercials had invaded Detroit, reminding scared locals to take advantage of this corrected and certified technology. Advertisings looked like Épinal prints, showing happy and beautiful families their days embellished by a smiling and voluntary robot. Sophisticated dishes, game partners, fairy gardens— a fairy tale made up of poor metals, like mice weaving princess dresses.

The shop was equipped with surveillance cameras that were also used to warn the owner when a customer entered, so, just like for the first visit, David Smith quickly introduced himself to the detective.

“Hello again, detective, do you have any other questions to ask me?”

The technician proved his professionalism with the belt where were stuck several tools and his sweatshirt full pockets that hide other instruments of technologic magic. Like the ink that betrayed the writers’ profession of the last century, the thirium had left bluish marks on the hands of the man who could not quite get rid of them.

David Smith took a seat on a high stool: his pale complexion that matched his hair pulling on the red left no clue. The man was livid by nature.

“Yes, Mr. Smith,” Gavin crossed his arms without realizing it, “in fact, I’ve exactly the same questions, but I want to hear other answers.”

“Is there a problem, detective?”

“Yeah. There’s a fucking problem.”

David Smith jumped and the policeman put his hands on the counter:

“You assured me that the ZK200s that you have recovered have all been recycled, right?”

“Yes, as I explained, these models are rather rare, there must be two hundred of them, at most, and it was a boon to be able to discover how CyberLife had made them.” He glanced at the RK900, still intrigued by this unique model. “It’s been difficult since last November, if I perfected my knowledge, I could repair these models too and earn more money.”

The touching explanation caused no emotion to Gavin who remained hostile.

“We just found the model that belonged to the Collins. My partner checked the serial numbers. But it’s even better than that: the ZK200 has been _equipped_ to meet the expectations of a pedophile. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t!”

 Gavin slapped his fist on the plastic surface, cursing, though bruising the technician’s ears did not worry him more than that.

“You haven’t recycled the android! Did you pass it on to someone else?”

Confused, David Smith lost himself in incoherent explanations. Conrad stayed behind, its hands crossed behind its back, clenched in fists. Its calm was a mechanical facade, resistant to anger that crept into its circuits. But before the patience of its partner wears out completely, the android approached and put a hand on one shoulder. A call to order discreet and effective.

“Mr. Smith, your lies are an offense. How do you justify lying to a police officer?”

The man opened his mouth but other lies would weigh down his situation. His silence annoyed the detective who insisted, before informing him that he would be taken to the police station to be in custody. At this announcement, David Smith felt a cold sweat dart on his forehead.

 

Under the gloomy light of the interrogation room, the technician had a spectrum complexion. He had been sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair for thirty minutes and the walls were his only interlocutors. The police liked to take their time when the presumption of innocence crumbled as surely as plaster.

David Smith did not even know if eyes were scanning him from the other side of the mirror and he resisted the temptation to turn his face. Shoulders tilted, head bowed, he looked at his fingers crossed on the table. He was not handcuffed and could have got up to stretch his legs, but they were shaking so much that they would not have held him for long.

In fact, neither Gavin nor Conrad was watching him: the detective was lecturing Florent Le Dantec, drunk again. Tired of all these graying alcoholic men, Gavin had dragged the Frenchman into a cell, preventing him from singing until the drunkard stopped on his own, feeling nausea that pushed him to plunge his head into the toilet bowl.

“And it’s not even 7PM—” the detective sighed, hands on hips, looking at Conrad who was helping him, who was _allowed_ to help him. The android lifted the detainee so he could get up and sit on the bench, leading every one of his wobbly step.

“Feeling better, Florent? You promise you aren’t going to choke on your own?”

The Frenchman grumbled, claiming a glass of water by naming the detective ‘ _Reed du cul_ ’, hiding his joke in his request as always. It was only once in the staff room that Conrad asked:

“Detective, do you understand Monsieur Le Dantec’s joke?”

Gavin had to admit no. It was the only one able to calm this cumbersome visitor without anyone having ever understood this mystery. While filling a glass, Gavin hesitated to ask for the translation. Conrad realized that pride was paralyzing his tongue, so it answered with the mute question:

“Your last name’s pronounced in the same way as the French word for wrinkle: ride, and Reed, and ‘cul’ means ass, so the wrinkle of the—”

“Alright! I get it!” Gavin did not want to hear more. “I can’t believe this asshole was insulting me for months!”

Furious, he went to the cell to swing the glass filled with water before Conrad could stopped him, aiming at Florent’s chest. The man felt a sharp pain in his chest and found him soaked. Partially sobering, he jumped up and began to swear.

“ _Penn klouk_!”

“He just said something like ‘head of cunt’, a Breton curse.”

Gavin did not even need to ask for the translations; Conrad was in charge of decrypting even the Breton insults, which annoyed the Dantec who fixed the machine, dazed.

“The next time you open your mouth, Florent, Conrad will translate all your bullshit, ok?”

Defeated first, the prisoner then apologized, his hands raised to confirm his defeat. Alcohol was still beating against his temples, resonating under his head, inhibiting any will to fight.

“Hey, Reed, I still want my glass of water!”

Gavin retrieved the glass on the floor that had not broken and, barely appeased, went back to the sink, Conrad behind him. The detective turned on the tap and, without looking at the android, thanked it. The fact that he pronounced its name was the most pleasant of attention and Conrad did not ask for more. However, it held Gavin before he returned to the cell and, with its hands, said:

“ _Next time, I’ll translate into sign language._ ”

This silent complicity brought them closer, always a little more. Gavin burst out laughing and gestured with his hand from his chin to the android. “ _Thank you_ ”.

 

It was getting dark, but the androids in single file continued to walk towards the truck, led by automatons in police uniforms. Excluded from this chain, the policemen could only watch, attentive to this parade of diodes, red and empty eyes full of anger. Embarrassed by their nakedness, the police had collected silver survival blankets for the ZK200s to wear as capes, but there was not enough for all of them. Ben Collins was nibbling his lip against this procession. Halloween would be in a few weeks, still popular holyday, and the scene would fit in a macabre and painful tale. Androids had no soul, yet these children were nothing more than ghosts, dispossessed of bodies that had never belonged to them.

Ben Collins had been a friend of Hank, even though their relationship had been buried with the young Cole: the farewells had been pronounced for stuffed animals and toys at the same time as barbecues on metal music and beers after work. And the detective had witnessed the decay of the lieutenant, until the death of the latter. Of a nature yet calm and nonchalant, Ben had felt a hate planting its seeds: it had grown then, asserting its roots, its thorns tearing his stomach, squeezing his lungs. By the time, this plant embellished with fury and the RK800 had been disabled, so this starving anger that had nothing to eat.

If the relations with his colleague Reed were colder, they had improved when the RK900 had arrived: Ben had feasted to see Gavin mocking the android. Skinny and sterile revenge, but the placebo effect was too delicious.

But tonight, those stupid pleasures fulfilled his mouth with a disgusting taste butchering his taste buds, making him want to throw up.

“Poor kids—”

Tina Chen next to him approved.

It was strange: it had taken more than a hundred destroyed androids to attract the first sympathizers, last year. But thirty-two child victims of rape were sufficed to sensitize policemen, already aware of the horrors of the human, making forget their mechanical nature.

Even Gavin could not remain insensitive.

 

“Have you recycled the models of androids kids?”

After an inspiration, David Smith shook his head slowly. Gavin had explained to him the reasons for his detention and had reminded him of his rights, before starting with simple questions to explore. The confrontation with Le Dantec had calmed him down: his hands were just crossed in front of him, his head bent to receive confessions.

“What did you do?”

Conrad would have liked to be at this table: Gavin was doing a good job at the moment, opting for intimidation rather than aggressiveness, but the android wanted to be at his place, it wanted to snatch the confession itself. It had to be satisfied with the role of observer from the adjoining room. The mechanisms of its arms tried to move, driven by impulsive reflexes. The android locked its joints, retaining access to violence. It had to calm down, see Gavin’s photo, listen to him calling it by name, just these small effective elements to soothe anger.

“I answered to ads that took back child models at exorbitant prices.” Gavin was silent, leaving the interviewee time to organize his answers. “Since last November, androids have much less success, which makes business difficult. It was prolific, like the cinema at the beginning of the last century, but now— So I took advantage of it. I’m alone to run my shop. And there were some very interesting prices.”

While David Smith was justifying himself, the detective grabbed the tablet next to him and launch a video from Conrad’s memory. The rapes were not in the band, only the discovery of the naked children.

“Did you make the changes?”

Gavin pointed to the obvious genital details on the screen, too realistic, while CyberLife left only a smooth pubic surface in fact. The technician did not dare to look, just staring at the table. A cowardly attitude that Gavin could not bear anymore: he hit the surface with the flat of the hand, ordering him to look at the screen:

“Look and answer! Did you make the fucking changes on these machines?!”

The last word sounded like a detonation.

“These are machines,” said David Smith, “why does it matter so much?”

“Because these machines are used for pedophiles and even in 2039, having sex with children is still a crime. So did or did you not add these bonuses yourself?”

The clenched fist pounded the table again: it was the metal board or the spectral face of the technician. The wrist bone clashed with the steel but the pain vanished quickly: anger was boiling so pain was forgotten, ephemeral and ridiculous.

Gavin had to pester the technician for long minutes before getting up, angry, to leave the room. He entered the adjoining room with a multitude of swear words that expressed his frustration.

“Fuck!”

On the other side of the mirror, the suspect could not hear the insults thanks to the soundproof walls.

“He knows we have a certain amount of time,” Gavin, who had clearly guessed that point, gave his partner a death stare. “Do you want me to try, detective?”

“What I want especially right now is a coffee. The evening’s going to be long.”

“Let me try,” insisted the android, before smiling, adapting to the playful mood of his colleague, “detective, if I can’t make David Smith confess in the hour, I hack the coffee machine for you for three months.”

Despite his arms crossed, Gavin raised an eyebrow and allowed him be won over by an exhausted laugh.

“And what do you earn if you can make him talk?”

Conrad thought for a moment: it did not need to eat or drink, so there was no restaurant to bet. Money was of no use to it either.

“A movie,” said Conrad.

“What?”

“A movie. I know that cinemas are forbidden to androids, but last night you watched _Three Bodies_. I think the survey was well built,” the human listened, skeptical, “I would like another movie like this, but on one condition: you don’t know it either and we’ll see who finds the culprit first.”

“Wait, you _want_ to watch a movie? Like a wish?”

“Yes.”

Gavin could not believe it:

“And that’s how you intend to become a machine again?”

“I was created to investigate, that’s what I’ll do,” Conrad defended itself without much conviction.

“And you want to watch it with me? Sounds more like an evening with friends than an inquiry, so don’t take me for a fool.”

“Are you afraid to bet?”

“Don’t even try this technique with me: of course I accept your bet,” curious, the detective already took place to observe the exchange. He noticed Conrad’s smile, an expression that was becoming more and more natural. “Move, don’t stay here, you have fifty-eight minutes left.

“Fifty-nine minutes and sixteen seconds, detective.”

“And erase that damn grin! You’re just scary!”

Confident, the RK900 replied:

“I know you don’t think so: you complimented my mouth earlier.”

It heard Gavin calling it “you plastic Calvin Klein” before going out. These teasing had awakened sensations that tickled its facial muscles and made thirium dance, distilling a happy mood that the android needed to protect itself. Especially since it had already chosen its approach that would be brutal.

Since its programs were dispersed, the robot oscillated between two states: first, a desire for violence that had manifested itself several times, but also a relaxing levity that always caught it in the presence of the detective. It was different from what it had felt when it first met with Fathia: as the young woman had told it, Gavin was horribly and wonderfully human, attracting the android that saw a form of model not to follow but to understand. Conrad liked the idea that every exchange, every look, every playful barb weaves a closer relationship between it and Gavin. The threads were going to be lacking, unless its partner finally agreed to see it other than as a machine. A desire that its program did not suppress.

With its white hand, the RK900 locked the door and, determined, took place in front of David Smith. At first unable to support these eyes of steel, the technician looked to the mirror before understanding that he would be face to face with the latest prototype of CyberLife, a model he knew nothing about.

“Detective Reed asked you a question, Mr. Smith, and we need the answer,” Conrad began, static, losing its reflexes that perfect the illusion of humanity. It did not need to simulate breathing, blink or mimic tics. The sentinel seemed made of ice. “Equipping androids with genitals isn’t a crime. The BL100 are equipped, why not the ZK200? We, the androids, are here to serve, after all, so the technician who did the editing didn’t break any laws. He’s more likely to be socially condemned, but you know, as I do, that spontaneous confessions are often rewarded with some protection.”

From his place, Gavin struggled to cope with this rigid profile, comparing Conrad who was with him a few minutes earlier and the RK900 investigating. There was something awful in that calm voice that was noticing the facts. David Smith also resisted this pressure with difficulty.

“What I saw left no doubt about the functions of these ZK200s. The one with the number 227 652 333-11 spent exactly thirteen hours with the same customer in a rented room. I couldn’t identify customers through a damaged memory, but I saw an alliance on the fingers that never stopped rushing into the mouth of the ZK200, a technique to gag but useless. The machines don’t scream. Even less when they don’t know how to react.” The RK900 took its time: the technician had to hear every word. “The ZK200s are programmed to love their adoptive parents, but if they were physically modified, their programs were still intact. They don’t know how to react when undressed in front of strangers who force them to spread their legs or get on all fours. These are machines; there’s no need to threaten them or to pretend to play.”

David Smith repressed a sob. Tears began to flow, thick, tumbling down his cheeks, towards his chin.

“Controlling a child is a very easy thing, so imagine the luxury and time savings with ZK200s. But a paraphilia, like pedophilia, needs challenge and maintaining these impulses can lead a majority to rape real children to increase pleasure.”

The technician pressed his fists against his eyes, suddenly shaking with spasms piercing him.

“The ZK200 are just machines, but the technician allowed a traffic to maintain sexual deviancy.”

“I didn’t mean do to that—”

From his seat, Gavin held his breath. His throat was tied by the words of the android.

“So you admit having made changes on the thirty-two models?”

“Yes, I did it—”

David Smith used his sleeve to wipe his eyes turned red. He was trying to catch his breath, without much success.

“I— I didn’t think that—” he felt so bad, so sorry. “I had no opinion on this subject and I told myself that these machines would help to contain impulses on the contrary. That it could help society.”

The reason for the money was gone: the spearhead of his defense was a charitable intent now. Of course, dissecting machines all day long, handling blued cables, components, processors and other electronics, David Smith did not imagine the pain endured by the ZK200 he had handled.

“Why did you change these androids?”

“The authors of the ad asked me once I got in touch with them.”

Tina pushed the door to the room where Gavin was. A look at the technician questioned then she turned her back to the scene by settling on the edge of the office.

“Are you alright?”

Both colleagues had asked the question at the same time. A question ridiculous but which obeyed principles of friendship. Both remembered the conversation the other night and after seeing these catatonic androids, they were certain: Connor’s deviance would have saved Hank.

“We took two androids to the morgue before bringing the others to the exhibit. Christopher takes care of it tomorrow morning, he starts at eight in the morning.”

“Great, thanks.”

In the sad silence, the confessions of David Smith resounded in the speakers.

“Conrad managed to make him talk,” Gavin announced. Tina noticed the use of the name, a little surprised. “I tried to be intimidating, but Conrad did worse: it just smashed his nose in his shit.”

“Effective technique.”

“And not really deliberate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Androids can swap pieces of memory, you know? And Conrad saw part of what happened to these kids.”

Tina grimaced and looked at the android with a lot of sympathy. Gavin then shared his doubts about the RK900’s motivations that went far beyond the demands of his program, captivating the officer.

In discussing, neither Gavin nor Tina heard the rest of the conversation between David Smith and Conrad:

“Have you changed the android of your brother and sister-in-law?”

“Yes—”

“What name did its parents give it?”

David Smith remembered the name of the machine that had been his nephew for a few months, but thinking back to the fate it had condemned, he was unable to pronounce it.

The RK900 leaned slightly, its face dark, and murmured:

“You’re a piece of shit.”

The technician stared at the android, uncertain to have heard right, refusing to believe that he had just been insulted by a machine.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t understand your question, Mr. Smith.”

“You told me something!”

“No, I didn’t,” Conrad lied before getting up. “I wish you a good evening, Mr. Smith.”

 

David Smith had been released but a thread was still keeping him under investigation: his cooperation was not over and he had to reconnect with buyers with dubious requirements. He was not a pimp, he swore it, but he had still provided the victims of this traffic and had responsibilities in this matter.

Before leaving the police station and under the supervision of two officers, the technician had contacted a certain Joyce Stace, asking for an interview for the following day. To justify the speed of the appointment, David Smith mentioned that the android fallen from the window had an intact memory and probed, so the police was in the footsteps of the network. A motive that encouraged the pimp to meet his supplier as soon as possible.

Conrad had accompanied Gavin into the police station’s car park after they wished good night to Florent le Dantec, already asleep in his cell. An hour before midnight, and the detective has only two things in his mind: go home and sleep.

While walking, he consulted a list of police films since he had lost his bet. His pride might have taken a hit, but the prospect of trapping the pimp on the next day delighted him too much.

“Unsure about the movie, detective?”

“Hold on! There are movies with no clue, we’ll never find the culprit before the end if I pick the wrong title,” he had to admit: he was getting caught up in this game. “Hey, Robocop, if I find the criminal before you, will you hack the coffee machine?”

“No.”

“For two weeks then?”

“No. You’re a poor loser, detective: you’ve lost a first bet and you already want to follow up with another one.”

“I like trying things. But I give you my word, don’t worry: I’ll find you a movie and as soon as we get this slop tomorrow, we’ll have this evening.”

Conrad had no reason to leave with its colleague: it had no clue to analyze, no theory to create. Just wait, wait alone at the police station and let Gavin go home. The android, however, was thinking of a pretext, but no excuse could justify its presence and Gavin did not propose to come.

Then, with the plumb of automaton, the RK900 wished a good night to the detective.

“Thanks,” Gavin stopped before taking a seat in his car, “hey, Conrad. Good job with David Smith. Very scary but very effective, even I can recognize it.”

Tina had also congratulated it, but the robot had not felt the same pride as during the present moment. And most importantly, the officer’s departure had not caused the same disappointment as when the android watched the rear lights of the detective’s car move away, thinking it would stay at the station that night.

 

The two children in the morgue were off. Their resemblance to plastic dolls was striking: the eyes were nothing but iridescent balls, the lips seemed stuck to each other. Yet the hands were almost touching, fingers trying to reach into sleep.

Christopher Landru thanked Moira for the cup of tea it served. Gavin had just had a coffee to listen to what the doctor could say.

“I’m not going to pretend that my diagnosis is good, Reed: I usually work on organic, not plastic. But they are well used androids, if you allow me this word.”

“I know your area is mostly humans, so did you find anything?”

“Yes, thankfully: when I spend twenty minutes to rummage between the legs of a child, android or human, I prefer that it isn’t for nothing. The traces of sperm will not give much I think, however, I found hairs with the bulb and I should have a result tonight.”

Gavin knew very well that pedophiles could flee into the wild, but if a few names and faces could be revealed before the pimps were arrested, he would be satisfied.

“Some owners want to get them back by the way, so we’ll see with CyberLife if—”

“You can’t be serious, Reed.”

Conrad, present with Moira, listened to them, intrigued.

“What’s wrong?”

“You have to destroy those androids, Gavin,” the doctor used to call the detective by his last name, an old mark of respect that resisted time, but now, he had to go to the man, not to the policeman, “do you realize what they went through? They’ve all become deviant, unable to live with humans. Moira has also evaluated the damage.”

“So what? Couldn’t we update them?”

“CyberLife could perhaps, but who knows how they’ll be if information persists? You have to disable all these ZK200s, I don’t see any other alternative. It’s like a way to free them from what they have lived.”

“So you advocate euthanasia for these kids?”

Christopher did not bother to confirm or correct the vocabulary of his guest: his silence was enough. These ZK200s had to be recycled or even destroyed, just like machines that had become defective.

Conrad’s LED went yellow, yet it agreed with the doctor’s advice: these children were far too badly damaged, it knew it quite well, and that was perhaps the best future they could know. The happiness of disappearing at the same time as the suffering which would be diluted in oblivion.

“I know that you’re mainly dealing with the dead, Landru, but I would like your opinion: these dysfunctions, can they come from anything other than emotions? If we know the reasons for these bugs, we can correct them, right?”

Gavin did not believe in his own words, always dubious. Under the lustrous mustache of the doctor, an ironic grin emerged:

“Ah, an unbeliever, a skeptic! Let me ask you a question, Reed: do humans feel emotions?”

“What— of course we do!”

“I would be less categorical if I were you,” Christopher mentioned depressive cases where emotions were inhibited, criminals with blunt moods, relying on extreme examples before finishing on a statement: “Reed , the term ‘emotion’ doesn’t correspond to anything concrete in the brain, it’s a small word very practical to include subjective phenomena. I don’t have an opinion about what happens in the circuits of our robots as I’ve no opinion on what’s going on in our amygdala which still is a mysterious nucleus for science. But we’re in 2039; imagine if we refused to believe these emotions just because for several centuries we were unable to explain them?”

In spite of himself, Gavin glanced at Conrad.

Christopher Landru manipulated brains that were broken down, drained of all neuronal activities, but to understand death, one had to understand life and the doctor had some knowledge. And like any great scientist, his knowledge accorded to a respectful humility of ignorant.

“You’re hanging around with your android a bit too much,” Gavin replied with a tired laugh.

“You never asked me why I care so much about Moira.”

“I deduced that you had a weakness for little redheads.”

“What a bad detective you are: all my conquests are blond, as for their size, I’ve never met a person taller than me, so necessarily, they’re small,” Christopher drank another sip of tea, preparing with his chatty tendencies, “Moira looks like a person I once received. Well, looks like— One day, they brought the corpse of a nine-year-old who had died under the thumps of her father-in-law. She was adorable despite her sad look, death never suits children anyway. She had big red curls and freckles from ears to forehead! Very pale skin, of course, and eyes that hesitated between blue and green. It was the first time I performed an autopsy on a victim so young and I refused to believe she was there, so I thought she had recovered from strangulation, that she had survived by a miracle and got up saying goodbye. I wondered then what would become of her if her mother had chosen a better life partner. In what subject would she have excelled? Would she have become a doctor? Or would she rather have developed a literary spirit to become a storyteller? How many hearts would she have broken with her hair so rare? Would she have liked the tall red guys? Would she have preferred blondes like me? I built her a lifetime when I had just opened her trachea, Reed. It has been one of the most painful times of my life.” As his eyes fogged, Christopher reached for Moira and the android agreed to put its fingers in the doctor’s skinny grip. “And then one day, the morgue welcomed Moira. I wondered why CyberLife had given her this look, a physique that this little girl could have had if her stepfather had let her live, but I accepted that fact. And for nothing in the world I would replace Moira.”

Gavin stared at the embrace of these hands, finally understanding Christopher’s paternal attachment. He leaned his forehead against his palm, watching his coffee so dark.

“Shit— Landru, don’t you think I cried enough with Fathia’s death?”

“I know, Reed, and I’m sorry. But maybe you’ll see things differently now.”

Conrad had not dared to approach the detective in front of the doctor and his assistant, but in the corridor to get to the surface of the world, it ventured to ask his partner if he was fine.

“We have to go carry on, Robocop.”

“What did you decide for the ZK200s, detective? Are you going to follow Dr Landru’s advice?”

“Yes.” Gavin suddenly stopped, like lost, “after all, they’re just machines, they can be destroyed just like that.”

“Yes, detective, they’re just machines.”

“So why it hurts me so fucking much?”

His broken voice alarmed Conrad who was unable to comfort him. Its social program was going at full speed, its psychology abilities too, but no consolation was enough for Gavin. If affection gives an illusion of strength, tenderness is also accompanied by weakness.

The most difficult thing was to contact the former owners who had the right to know, who would have the sadness to learn that their child would not be returned to them, because it will be destroyed.

Tina had been willing to accompany to Gavin, supporting him in these tests. Conrad followed the duo, assisting in the afternoon of poignant tears. Amelia Stilton collapsed, her husband was shocked: they did not think that their android would have such a destiny. Nobody had imagined it. Even the so scattered Sergovich had to sit down, standing the news as if they were punching in the stomach. The visit to the Collins was the hardest: the two ladies were gifted to make a remarkable appearance, so they listened to the two policemen with a stern look, but Conrad saw the twitching of the eyebrows, the trembling of the corners of the mouths, the moisture that veiled the eyes.

When Margaret closed the door, she flanked and was overtaken by her wife. Their closest friends admired the iron character of this lady who has to have an African warrior among her ancestors, adulating the energy that surrounded her without knowing that it came from Elizabeth, more discreet but essential to Margaret. The two mothers began to cry until they lost their voices.

 

“Gavin, the meeting is in two hours, we need to get ready to get there,” Tina recalled, delaying the other visits. The team had followed a rigorous briefing throughout the morning, with the five officers listening to Fowler’s instructions.

Two officers, including Tina, would take care of David Smith’s safety, when Detective Reed, with Conrad, would take care of arresting the pimp, relying on the reinforcement of Officer Bennett if needed.

Once the organization was launched, the wait was particularly long. The agents had split into three groups and Gavin was patiently waiting beside an attentive Conrad. They were in the room where they had discovered the children, framing the door that would be break down at the first signal.

His shoulder resting against the wall, the detective readjusted the bulletproof vest under his sweater. The thickness kept him warm but the static position allowed the cold to bite his feet and hands. The idea of stretching his legs to circulate the heat was tempting but he had to resist.

“ _You’re cold._ ”

“ _Sorry, I’m human._ ”

The irony was better seen on the face of the detective annoyed by this observation when the android seemed to resist the breezes that crossed poorly insulated windows. Conrad extended its hands to Gavin’s and invited him to put his palms against it owns. Without showing much enthusiasm, the man obeyed and felt the hot skin of the android, giving life to his numb fingers.

“ _Still, I prefer gloves._ ”

Another barb that gave birth to a smile. Conrad forced Gavin to rest his hands again, keeping him from even speaking with signs.

With cautious slowness, Conrad slipped its fingers between Gavin’s ones. In fact, he did not need to command the thirium to gain a few more degrees: this rise was self-evident, like a spontaneous reaction. The grip of the hands now firmed, the android thought about to disable its synthetic skin, inspired by a sentimental instinct. Even if he did not know much about that reflex, Gavin felt his cheeks turn red when the beige skin gave way to the moon’s flesh, revealing the joints that had been tied to his. He was unable to recognize what was happening, but his heart, frightened, began to beat faster.

Man’s voices were heard on the other side of the door, causing the detective to break off contact. He listened closer and guessed a few words spoken by David Smith, a voice he already knew, and those of another who had a sharper tone.

The police never knew how Joyce Stace understood the trap. David Smith’s collaboration was complete, the agents were well hidden and the door to the children’s room was not unusual. Tina explained it after as a kind of survival instinct: it was the only logical reason for the pimp’s hasty departure.

Joyce Stace first made the mistake of fleeing from where he had arrived, blocked by Constable Bennett, before rushing for the stairs to the back of the main hall. At the signal, the RK900 broke the door that concealed them and, reactive, launched in pursuit of the man. The steps did not creak: they crackled under the weight of the fleeing and the hunter.

Gavin had drawn, ready to join the race, but the police could tell the pimp to stop, Joyce Stace did not intend to obey.

The floor was in a pitiful state, representing a certain danger. The RK900 was only a few meters from its target, quickly evaluating the fragile points of the damaged floor. Joyce Stace, on the other hand, did not have that capacity and he rushed to one of the back windows, seeing the branches of a tree on the other side that could serve him, mad hope.

In a few strides, the android manages to reach the man.

From the ground floor, Gavin hesitated to climb, reckless but not unconscious. Before he could decide, he heard a sound of wood breaking and the skeleton of the floor fractured, drawing a hole through which the target and the android passed.

In the rubble that had raised blinding clouds of dust, the detective could see the thirium flowing and stained the floor. There was a strong smell of metal from the android, a smell that was close to human blood.

Conrad heard Gavin calling it, but its programs drew its attention to the alarm: its right leg had been torn from the knee and the thirium was escaping from the wound, leaving it little time before its blood run off and caused its deactivation.


	7. A chance on 400 quadrillions to be born

Conrad was lying on its back, its arms folded over Joyce Stace, protecting him while keeping him captive. When the ground had begun to crack, the RK900 had managed to trap the suspect against it, preventing him from breaking his neck, sacrificing its own metal carcass. And this gesture had just cost him one leg.

“Conrad! Conrad! You hear me?”

Gavin knelt beside the android despite the broken beams, turning its face to assess the damage. The sight of the robot was blurred by information as noisy as a cloud of bumblebees, preventing it from clearly seeing or hearing its partner:

“Gavin, I’ve three minutes and twenty-one seconds left before turning off.”

The jeans were partly torn, revealing the blue wound. The metal joint was dislocated and the cables wrapped around the titanium bone were torn off. The artificial veins were sliced, leaving the thirium pouring over the dead wood, tinting it. The RK900 was not free to deal with it, retaining the pimp, fulfilling its mission.

Gavin suffocated because of this metallic smell, feeling panic climbing.

“Smith!”

The technician jumped, still paralyzed by the events.

“You have to help him! Hurry!”

Tina pushed David Smith to his colleague, also seized by worry. She stepped forward with the other two agents to seize the pimp in a state of shock. The RK900 loosened its arms with difficulty, and the jerky motion reflected how the thirium pump was really put to the test.

The technician rolled up the jeans to see how the android had been damaged, then opened the shirt by asking the robot to turn off its artificial skin. After removing the black sides of the garment, David Smith touched the white surface to open the android’s stomach.

Conrad grabs his hand before letting him search in its bowels:

“Don’t disable me.”

Gavin went ahead of the technician:

“Don’t worry, Conrad, I won’t allow it. He’s only going to help you, right, Smith?”

The RK900 relaxed its fingers and released the threatened technician who began to handle the plates of its torso carefully: without tools, the technician had to redouble his efforts to avoid damaging this model he had never analyzed. Like AP700s, PL600s or BL100s, the RK900 was equipped with a security to stop the circulation of thirium in certain places, controllable thanks to a few connections.

The plastic opened on the biocomponents in the stomach that looked like artificial fireflies caught in cobwebs. The transparent organs were entangled in cables traversed by pulsating light, azure gleams succeeding turquoise ones. David Smith’s fingers skirted the thirium pump which, to Gavin’s surprise, had the fast-paced rhythm of a dying heart. Leaning over them, Tina also observed the organs of the android, fascinated by these mechanisms that made this supposed life work.

“I’m going to stop the thirium from going through these cables,” the engineer explained, “but it’s like a tourniquet: it only helps for a while and must be temporary, it must be repaired.”

“So what are you waiting for?!”

Gavin was getting angry, ready to repel the one who turned out to be incompetent.

“I’ve never worked on an RK900! I don’t know how it works!”

“And who could fix it?”

“CyberLife, I don’t see anyone else.”

“Out of the question. I won’t take him to CyberLife,” the detective snapped, understanding the risks.

As the wound was no longer bleeding, the sight of the android was no longer parasitized by a cloud of warnings, but its reserve had dwindled, slowing down its functions. It straightened up on its elbows and stared at its sliced leg. The body envelope was an abstract concept for androids, able to transfer their memory from one body to another. Still, it was curious to see the rest of its leg farther away, abandoned.

It did not want to change its body.

“It’ll eventually turn off if a skillful technician don’t take care of it.”

The detective put his hand on his partner’s shoulder:

“How much time do you have?”

“Forty-nine minutes and eleven seconds.”

The android did not know which solution to choose: giving up more professional help would cause it to be disabled, but going to CyberLife could have the same result. Conrad was about to talk before it felt Gavin’s arms pass behind its back and under its knees to lift it up.

“There’s just your leg to repair, they’ve no reason to replace you.”

Machine and possession, Conrad rested on the decision of the human.

Gavin had resigned himself to bringing it to the company and he would insist that the model did not need to be replaced. He did not know what was best for CyberLife: to provide a new leg for the last prototype or replace it with a body already ready? He remembered that Connor, destroyed by a deviant android, had been replaced in less than twelve hours: same face, same pace, same voice, same behavior but a different number on the jacket. Certainly that RK800s were in stock to mitigate the slightest accident, so the basement of CyberLife Tower contained perhaps fifty RK900s just in case.

Conrad was trying to make it easier for the detective to get to the car, clinging to his neck and keeping its thighs together. The weight of an android was finally close to that of an adult man, unless it was because of the amount of blood lost.

“I’m defective, detective: if CyberLife notices it, I’ll be replaced.”

“I’d tell them that their diagnosis is defective. And I’d tell them to fuck off.”

He helped it to install into the passenger seat, mocking the last drops of thirium that could stain the inside of the car. With an idiotic but very human reflex, Gavin removed his coat and spread it on Conrad’s legs, bringing unnecessary heat. He even began to talk to it too, as an ambulance attendant does with a wounded man:

“Hey, Robocop, don’t switch off: we’ve a movie to watch, have you forgotten?”

“I don’t,” its partner seemed as bad as it. Conrad noted the high heart rate and signs of nervousness. “Detective, I’m not going to fall asleep and die, you don’t have to talk to me to keep me awake.”

“I just wanted to talk to you so you wouldn’t get bored.”

“You care about that now?”

“For once I don’t ask you to shut up, so enjoy!”

Gavin badly hid his anxiety: he followed the GPS but missed two turns, insulting anything that could be insulted. The android extended its arm to comfort him, not forgetting to make fun of him with irony:

“I’m sure you’re investigating as well as you drive, but I’m not going to miss this movie, even though the odds already point to me as a winner.”

“I’m sure you’ll fail.”

“ _You_ ’re going to fail.”

“Shut up.”

“So now I have to shut up?”

The detective manages to laugh despite the appearance of the CyberLife Tower on the horizon. The hundred floors pierced the sky in a burst of silver, ready to tear the vault. What an ugly and pretentious construction.

The car was rolling on the endless bridge that bound Belle Isle and the mainland. The barriers on the sides enchained the complex structures, bringing a modern and impressive design to amaze each visitor, exaggerating again and again the magnitudes of this other world, far from the heart of the city where the colors were stacked by rainbow neon lights. But Gavin was too concerned about the condition of his partner. He began to slow down as he approached a gateway where a few soldiers were posted. Humans or androids, the detective did not notice, not taking the time to pay attention, and showed his plate, explaining that the RK900 prototype needed urgent repairs. This reason was enough to let them go through.

Once the car was parked, Gavin tried to carry Conrad who refused:

“I just need you like a crutch, detective, I won’t fall.”

“Androids have a hard time accepting help from meat bags, huh?”

Leaning on the detective’s shoulder, Conrad replied that it was not what it had meant. The robot, by automatism, raised the face towards the immense building, place of birth and perhaps place of death. Its fingers clutched Gavin’s coat with the intention of not letting him go.

The bright hall was almost empty, welcoming for only living beings some gigantic plants that took advantage of the space to arch their filiform body and their beautiful emerald hue. The ground formed a transparent bridge, allowing the admiration of the miniature forest that had grown just below, before leading to a large platform. And as if the association between futuristic architecture and untamed nature was not enough to prove the richness of the place, a colossal statue of a humanoid figure, supporting the symbol of the company, was erected in the center of this first floor.

Gavin glanced around: there were visitors, but they all wore azure armbands, following precise paths in this void saturated with echoes. He was the only human.

Close by, an android who looked like a pretty blonde woman noticed him and walked over to him. A perfect hostess who wore a blue dress that best suited a summer setting. She offered him a cordial smile.

“Hello, I’m Chloe. What can I do for you?”

Gavin quickly explained the reasons for the visit, annoyed since he considered that the lack of a leg was enough to emphasize the seriousness of the situation. Chloe looked pained at the sight of his colleague’s wound:

“Of course. Please, follow me.”

“Wait,” Gavin would not move if the conditions were not respected, “I want him fixed, not replaced, ok?”

“Repairs will take time, getting another model will be faster.”

“I don’t give a shit: this one has important information for an investigation in progress, I refuse to take the risk that they might disappear.”

The hostess recorded the requirements, the yellow LED marked the process, then smiled again:

“I understand. Please, follow me.”

 

The place was no different from a hospital for humans: the milky and shiny walls respected a sense of purity that became uncomfortable. To this matter so neutral and so clean were added many glass surfaces: floors, walls, sometimes ceilings, transparency was inviting in the complex structure of the CyberLife Tower, playing with perceptions, torturing the vision. The elevator, whose only steel frames were visible, led them to the twelfth basement.

In the corridors, Gavin was reassured to see other mortals even if they went about their business with seriousness similar to that of the automatons. Their conversations were barely audible, as were their footsteps. Chloe was walking with confidence, already knowing which workshop would be free for the RK900. Finally, it led them into a room with equipment that would have even impressed David Smith. Dentist’s office, surgery and factory workshop seemed nested in one in the same place. Several mechanical arms were placed against a wall, white as well. It seemed that the color was forbidden in these bowels of ice. The neon lights were not visible, hidden under polished glass, making their light ghostly. A real hospital.

The hostess invited Gavin to put Conrad on the table in the center and all of a sudden, the man knew he had no place in this robotic space. He ventured to ask Chloe:

“Can I stay?”

“You don’t need to stay, detective,” Conrad assured, “I’ll ask a taxi to take me back to the station, in the meantime, take care of Joy—”

“Tina can take care of it,” Gavin cut, still staring at the pretty blonde. “So? Can I stay?”

“You’re free to stay, but for your safety, you have to wait in the next room.”

She pointed to a corridor separated from the room by a large bay window. A bench was available for obscure reasons: Gavin doubted it was serving much. Maybe technology students came to watch the repairs? But a detective who wanted to recover his mechanical partner, Gavin Reed was certainly the only one.

Tina had sent him a message when he arrived at the tower, asking for news. He replied that he did not know how long it would take, but at least Conrad was going to be fixed. His colleague warned him that they had to bring the pimp to the hospital as well, since he complained of a sore neck: the fall may have hurt the human as well. As long as he was fit to go to trial, it was the most important.

Looking up, Gavin saw Chloe helping the RK900 undress. The artificial skin disappeared as the same time as the belt, the jacket, the shirt, the jeans, and— Gavin wondered if the android really needed boxers? CyberLife made an effort for the musculature of their last wonder, drawing an athlete’s back, strong shoulders. One of the two arms was wrapped with an azure band, embedded even in the white plastic. Despite the missing leg, Gavin guessed that they were well made too. Surprised, he noted in spite of himself that the android had a sex in a bluish silicone material, raising questions of functions. Eden Club’s androids were not the only ones to have this kind of attributes? Was it just a physical formality? Perplexed, he refrains from scrutinizing more.

Conrad sat on the edge of the table, stripped of all the tricks, either the outfit or the human appearance, becoming a machine in this sanitized workshop. Chloe went away with the folded clothes to throw them away; it would bring it a new uniform later.

Before, it stopped in the adjoining room to see Gavin, maintaining its unfailing friendliness:

“Can I ask you a few questions about your experience with the RK900 prototype produced by CyberLife?”

“No.”

Its round, soft face suddenly seemed worried:

“Are you not satisfied with this model?”

“That’s not what I meant, it’s just that—” the arms in the workshop unfolded like the petals of a lotus, cleaning the android before moving the plastic lid to access its entrails, removing the damaged parts, starting to fix it, “for the moment, I just want to be alone.”

Chloe bowed politely and, with mechanical respect, left the visitor.

The clamps aligned components to complete the leg, connecting cables, welding metal plates. The missing titanium bone was also replaced, bringing the structure to embrace indigo tubes: the thirium was not circulating yet, otherwise the flow would make them move.

Gavin checked the time on his cell phone: he was waiting for fifteen minutes already. Tina was keeping him informed: David Smith, in good health, was brought to the post, because if his involvement did not exceed the modification of the androids, he still had some responsibilities and a confrontation against the pimp would be inevitable.

More long minutes added up, way too slowly, piling up. Finally, the RK900 felt transfusions of thirium, its blood becoming fluid and whole. Its reflexes were tested, the resistance was evaluated, the new leg was cleaned. Anything that bleeds can die, and Conrad emerged little by little, recapturing that forbidden life.

Finally, Chloe introduced itself to Gavin, informing him that the workshop was safe again: it had to bring a new uniform to the RK900 and once the administrative details were settled, the two teammates could leave again.

Conrad was still lying down when Gavin came over to sit on the edge of the table. Closer, the detective noticed that the irises of the android were actually only slightly darker than its lunar skin. As embarrassed, he then turned his back and the body completely white dared not sketch any movement.

“You don’t have to stay, detective. My appearance may be a little— unsightly.”

The partner stubbornly stared at one of the bare walls.

“Did you mean ugly?”

“Yes. I meant ugly.”

Gavin laughed, running a hand over his neck. He had already watched it after all and its appearance was not so repulsive, so he ventured to look at it:

“It’s okay, it’s not worse than earlier.”

“What was worse?”

“When they opened your gut. It was fucking weird.”

Conrad smiled: its teeth were devoid of enamel, gray, and its tongue was black. Even the inside of its mouth had to be covered with a human varnish.

Still intrigued, Gavin wondered how the texture of this bare skin was. He put his hand down, assessing how smooth it was, catching the soft heat that was coming out of it. The robot was surprised to feel the palm of the human against its stomach, and below the surface, its biocomponents contracted, burning without the slightest fire. It straightened up on its elbows:

“Detective. You must transfer me to another colleague.”

Gavin had spent almost an hour in that fucking waiting room, struggling patiently before the android was repaired so he could take it back to the police station and conclude this fucking investigation. So he expected everything except this request.

“Why? We just got those bastards!”

The thirium pump pulsed. Conrad did not know if the emotions it felt were real, yet consistent with the stimuli, compelling to judge by the reactions of its body, but fake or not, it could not deny the exacerbated sensations that tortured it every time that Gavin touched it, called it by its name. All these reactions were far more devastating than when another human being performed the same gestures. Crippled with too warm joy, the robot understood what had accelerated its deviance.

The RK900 dismissed the detective’s hand, posing its diagnosis with a brutal machine:

“Because I started to develop tenderness towards you, and it’s growing so strong in my programs that it prevents me from concentrating on my priority tasks. To send me to a colleague would do me a great service, detective.”

Gavin felt the blood rush up to his cheeks and his heartbeat copied the robot’s one. As when Conrad had mixed its fingers with his, the man was afraid to understand: its teammate was an android, and even though it was created by humans, if it spoke like a human, it had to have its own language that it was necessary to decipher. It was even more disturbing when he remembered that the RK900 could possibly be able to have sex.

Gavin was trying to separate the facts and his own impressions, before remembering where they were: in a CyberLife workshop.

“What are you doing?! If technicians hear you talk like that, they’ll disable you.”

Conrad started repeating in sign language, but Gavin immobilized its wrists:

“Stop that! Right now!”

“Will you transfer me to another colleague?” The more the android insisted, the more its request imitated a stony fist hitting on the man’s stomach. “I can’t take the initiative myself.”

“Fuck, I— Can’t you put back your human appearance? I can’t— I’m not used to talking to you when you have this face.”

“Of course.”

Gavin looked away as the synthetic skin came back, covering the plastic, hiding the metal to forget the nature of the RK900. The hair grew back, the moles appeared, but the illusion stopped in the middle of the chest. Again face to face, Conrad noticed the high temperature on the cheekbones of its partner who murmured:

“There’ll be nothing left to transfer if you keep talking like—”

The door slid open to let Chloe through, imposing on them a ceremonial silence. The android handed a uniform to the RK900 who noticed that its registration number was shining on the jacket, confirming that it was still the same. A refurbished body and an intact deviance.

The detective moved away, letting his partner get dressed, fearing the little blonde would notice something. The two teammates did not exchange a word, refusing to take the risk that a microphone, a camera or the look of a robot might catch a sign. Feelings could be so obvious in this sterile and cold place.

Once released from the CyberLife Tower, Gavin tightened his cloak: on the bent curve of Belle Isle, the wind glided, powerful, wrapping around the legs. Frightened, the detective hurried, not caring whether Conrad needed time with its new leg. The doors of the car slammed but the engine did not start immediately. Conrad felt no regret: as a logical and rigid mind, it had simply established a statement that should have no impact on its functions. The state of its teammate was a secondary repercussion.

Finally, Gavin asked:

“What do you mean by ‘tenderness’ exactly?”

“I rely on the definition of the word, detective, which is a predominantly sentimental form of love and—”

“You’re so dump—” sighed the human, “I know what tenderness means! But how can you know that’s— what you’re feeling?”

“You’re human: you know those things better than me,” Conrad replied, slyly, “how do you know when you feel more affinity for a particular person? For example, did you love miss El Harbi?”

“I loved her as a friend, but I wasn’t in love.”

“What’s the difference?”

“We become stupid when we’re in love,” Gavin stopped then, “well, you’re already stupid, so it doesn’t count. But for example: Fathia was a friend, I didn’t care that she slept with other guys, I didn’t want to have her close to me all the time, I wasn’t looking for her approval or to seduce her. But she mattered. I don’t even know if it’s clear to you.”

In its programs, the RK900 listed several data that led it to conclude that the affection it had developed for its partner went beyond team fellowship. What was still curious because it was unable to explain how these ties had been strengthened, especially after their difficult beginnings.

“And I made you live a hell at first, don’t you remember?”

“I remember it very well, detective.” When Conrad looked for the first signs of deviance in its memory, they were always linked with Gavin, be it anger, sadness, or amusement. “I think it’s because in a way, you’re responsible for my deviance. Every time you change my name, you annoy me, every time you repel me, you irritate me. But I also noticed that every time you congratulate me, I’m proud, every time you laugh, which is quite usual, I feel calm, every time you make the effort to call me by my name, I feel important. And every time you touch me, my human skin disappears to be in direct contact with you.”

Gavin kept looking at the other cars in the parking lot, staring at any other point rather than those almost white eyes. Conrad finally concludes on a probability that left no doubt:

“With Lieutenant White, things would have been different.”

Fuck yes. Aubrey White would have been too scared to badger her partner. After all, she had fled the first night, refusing to return to the police station as long as the RK900 haunted the premises.

But Detective Reed had the excellent idea of pushing it to the limit, contaminating it with his own anger, his own bitterness, and his own thirst for affection.

“You’ll never become a machine again if you stay with me.”

“That’s why I’m asking you to transfer me to another colleague. I’m not sure Lieutenant White accepts me, but Detective Collins may agree.”

“Don’t you want to be shut down altogether? We’re already on place.”

Gavin pointed to the tower, although he did not want to go back there: he would let the robot go by itself.

“Because I don’t want to be replaced,” its LED flickered in red shades when it added, “I want to exist.”

The detective could hear again the words of Margaret Collins who had certified that a human could be loved in return by a machine. Doctor Landru too, a man of science and reason, had thrown paternal love on an android, certainly by proxy but the sympathy was real. In the end, the panic that had gripped him earlier proved that in a way the detective had become attached to his teammate. If Conrad wanted to live, it was not him who would stop it.

The engine ignited and the vehicle slowly left the scene, driving Conrad away. They were returning to the police station, but Gavin had no thought of giving to the pimp or his child-provider: all his convictions from last November were shattered. With a forced laugh, he murmured:

“Fuck, if Fathia could see me— if Anderson could see me—”

 

Jeffrey Fowler had booked a room to accommodate a dozen journalists in addition to the presence of three drones. Some newspapers tried this method of telecommuting, saving staff and movement, and if the machines were silent, the captain could not stand to see them flutter like big lazy midges. Linked by a contract with CyberLife, the captain was to apology for the technological advance represented by the RK900, the prototype was therefore at his side, adopting the rigor of a soldier.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your presence, physical or mechanical,” Fowler was famous for his cutting remarks, and few journalists would be offended, “especially as the announcement I must make is delicate.”

Although he was in charge of the investigation, Detective Reed had stayed at his desk, listening from afar the conference, available if needed. Elbows on his knees, he was consulting his cell phone. In the search engine of Google, he had been typing keywords like ‘androids’ and ‘love’, but Gavin had come across on BL100 buyers’ opinions who sound like jocks. “I always decide what we do, no need to compromise, whether for fucking or talking, even if I tried more the first than the second!” Was the comment most liked, followed by a comment from a client who praised the size of the partner’s penis honorable at last, also rejoicing to no longer hear snoring at night. A widely accepted finding.

“Dipshits. We’re in 2039, how about evolving a bit—”

The opinions on the Eden Club website must have been in the same bitter tone: people were no longer sexually frustrated, they were _romantically_ frustrated, selfish and ridding themselves of conflict. Hank and Gavin had never discussed these new modes of sexual androids, but the two colleagues would certainly have shared the same view on this tendency to flee from purely human and yet comforting faults.

Gavin liked too much the shouting and reconciliations that followed after to give up on humans. He loved how strong characters clashed with his, the surprises that came to hatch the monotony of life. The docile and compassionate behavior of androids, remembering of the perfect wives of the last century when polka-dotted dresses were fashionable, had never attracted him, not even once. He glanced at Conrad. He could see it across the bay window. The RK900 became deviant, developing what was inaccessible to the WR400s and the BL100s. It was different.

Finally, he tried other terms, entering ‘androids’, ‘feelings’ and ‘consciousness’. The more precise terms yielded more interesting results: the search engine drew up a list of academic articles, most of them very recent because of the events of the revolution led by the android named Markus. His thumb touched the title of a first essay titled “Does the Nervous System of Robots Exist?”, totally forgetting the ongoing investigation.

 

The tablet in hand added assurance in the gesture, giving a certain pace to Fowler who announced that Detective Gavin Reed, working with the model RK900 here, had found a pedophile traffic on the outskirts of the city. The detail of the children’s nature still shocked the journalists.

“We don’t know the scale of the case, but we’ll take the traffickers and the customers to court. We arrested a first pimp and we’ll search his home to make sure that human children haven’t been involved.”

Joyce Stace had not been questioned yet, having not yet arrived at the police station, but if he kept secret the name of potential colleagues, his home would be searched thoroughly. The likelihood that humans would also be victims removed any right of privacy.

Captain Fowler had finished summarizing the situation and hands began to get up, pressed by questions. He gave the floor to a little blonde woman with green glasses:

“What are you going to do with these androids? Had they owners?”

“The previous owners had returned them, so by law, these ZK200s no longer belong to them. They would have to buy them back, but the condition of the robots could be a danger.”

“Do you mean they became deviant? Just like those from last year?”

Fowler pressed his fingers on the desk to control himself. Despite his beautiful iridescent purple tie and black shirt, the captain became nervous. He had always hated these public statements where the least of his words would be analyzed. Damn, he already saw the paragraphs that would philosophize on the choice of vocabulary: children or machines? Victims or objects?

“I can’t comment on this, but CyberLife could give us some answers and we’ll discuss about it.”

And just like that, he passed the parcel to the representatives of CyberLife.

The captain straightened his shoulders, though he still seemed to be squeezed right next to the RK900. Then he pointed to a young man with almond-shaped eyes who raised his hand very high in an attitude still academic.

“Did these pimps commit a crime? The debate of androids used for pedophiles is still open, of what will they be accused exactly?”

Fowler had expected this question and selected a document in his tablet:

“The Detroit police are working with a psychologist specializing in criminology. She was unfortunately not able to be here today, attending a seminar in Toronto, but she left me a note for that purpose.” Fowler cleared his throat, reassured by the fact that it did not come from him. “Pedophilia is a paraphilia that comes in several attitudes. We have in mind the sexual predator as Marc Dutroux, the Belgian criminal known even in the United States, who seeks to cause suffering, something that a criminal can’t cause on an android. The likelihood that he turns to a human victim is therefore strong. Similarly, pedophiles deemed immature, as suffering from Peter Pan syndrome, fall in love with children, an idyll they can’t build with androids. Once again, the probabilities that these people turn to a human victim are strong.” The captain put down the tablet. “Our role isn’t to continue this debate but to ensure that there’re no human victims, and of course, to limit the risks.” The tense microphones absorbed all the words that were added to hours and hours of debate.

A new hand arose and, after having obtained the floor, the journalist asked who had modified the children’s models:

“I can’t communicate this information, but I can guarantee you that it isn’t a CyberLife technician.”

Gavin had risen, coming closer to listen to the answers. If Conrad noticed it out of the corner of its eye, it remained motionless: it was it which had confessed its nascent feelings, and yet it was the most peaceful of both. The detective noted the different attitudes of the android: the first days, the RK900 had been a pure machine that obeyed social software. Seeing it take on this role again proved how much the android had changed, how much it had distinguished itself from the RK800 despite the similarities of the face and the name.

Tina slammed his shoulder and the detective jumped, cursing.

“Fucking—”

“Ah, your legendary urban poetry that associates so well with Detroit!” They moved away so they would not to disturb the release. “Stace has a pretty stiff neck. The hospital donated him a scarf, so don’t rush this precious one.”

“I didn’t intend to hurt him.”

“Fortunately, since he already accuses your teammate of having brutalized him.”

“What?”

Using the words of Joyce Stace, Tina explained that the pimp claimed that the android caught him by the hair and raised its fist to hit him in the face as the ground collapsed. The officer sighed, hands on hips:

“I told him it wasn’t possible: androids aren’t allowed to hurt human beings even in self-defense. What do you think about it?”

She was, of course, referring to their conversation the other night. While trying to have a detached attitude, Gavin shrugged:

“He may have imagined it under the influence of fear.”

Still, he noted in a corner of his head that he should ask Conrad what had happened.

 

Gavin rinsed the cup before putting it on the drip tray. Joyce Stace would sleep in a cell this night, but the detective had to wait for the lawyer, expected for the first formalities, then he would come back the next day to attend a first exchange.

“You don’t have to stay, detective, these’re just administrative matters, I can handle it.”

“I can wait. By the way, I was going to smoke, are you coming?”

There were a few people in the staff room, which prevented him from chatting with the android, so he asked it to follow him. Upstairs, there was an empty room, an old archive room, mostly used by smokers during the gray days, because the narrow window allowed them to sate their little vice while remaining inside to stay warm.

Conrad then accompanied its partner, understanding that they had to discuss. The android imagined that the detective was going to give it an answer to its request.

Gavin lit his cigarette before opening the window. The cramped space gave a glimpse of the horizon too dark, parasitized by many urban lights. Over the years, the night had become opaque and the stars had dropped quite low, bursting into the insomniac streets.

“Stace said you hit him.”

He voluntarily modified the words, a technique that proved effective on ordinary humans, but the robot remained calm:

“I didn’t hit him.”

The RK900 was quite capable of lying, Gavin knew it, so he insisted:

“Hey, stop keeping things for you, I’m sick of looking like a fucking fool. You knew which tattoo was missing and you waited before telling me, you knew that the ZK200 at the dump was deviant and I learned it when we found the other kids— I made some efforts, right? So do the same now.”

A rigid mind like the RK900 saw perfectly the logic in this reproach. Its yellow LED reflected an uneasy feeling, so it bent the neck.

“You’re right, detective, I’m sorry—”

The android did not intend to replace the human, but by going it alone, it hurt his partner’s pride: it could be deviant and give itself some importance, but it did not will to become Gavin’s enemy. Even if the android did not nourish any dream of reciprocity, cordiality could be built only through honesty and trust. And it could at least enjoy this.

“Yes, I tried to hit Joyce Stace. When I caught him upstairs, I grabbed him and was ready to beat him. My fist might have broken his skull if the ground had not collapsed at that time.”

The ash collapsed, crumbling as it fell to the linoleum. What was most shocking to the detective was that the LED was blue: when Conrad had shown signs of violence the first time, when it had grabbed him near the car, the diode was red. But now, it was a quiet glow, as normal.

“So you really wanted to hit him. But you don’t have the right to hit a human.”

“I know. But frankly, detective, it did not matter to me.”

Gavin should have worried: the place was rather tight, isolated from colleagues, exiling together a meat body and a titanium body. Two disproportionate forces. But even if his weapon was stored in his holster at his belt, he did not feel threatened: Conrad explained to him that this desire was born of resentment against the pimp, nourished by what it had seen in the memory of the RK200s.

“I think I’m starting to get an opinion on people and, above all, to express them.”

“Obviously, yeah—” Gavin thought for a moment and then burst out laughing: “you know, I don’t blame you: once, when I was still a trooper, I gashed the cheek of a guy I questioned. I’m not ashamed but I had some serious problems.

“What did this person do?”

“He raped his little sister.”

It was several years ago but Gavin was seeing this kid who had just turned adult and was already full of evil. All the evidence had been collected and the culprit denied the facts by insulting the girl. Gavin had not accepted it.

“I fully understand how you felt.”

“I guess, yeah, but hey: learn to contain your emotions.”

With a classic gesture in the police station, the detective put his hand on the shoulder of his partner to comfort it, then stopped, remembering what the android had confessed.

There was something intriguing about the RK900, Gavin could not deny it. Its evolution touched him: the human had finally pity for these programs dedicated to feel, doomed to experience. This case had worn both of them, shocking them. Faced with horror, machine or organic needed comfort. And then, Gavin felt partly responsible: he could not force Conrad to return to CyberLife if it did not want to, he would not make the same mistake as Tina with Carol, and if the robot was transferred to another colleague, how would it change?

Conrad noticed that the cigarette was soon consumed:

“You can go home, detective, I’ll wait for the lawyer.”

“I’m not going home alone, Robocop: you wanted this movie, so you’ll get it. After all we’ve been through these days, even you need to relax.”

The RK900’s diode became scarlet, possibly mimicking blushing. If the LED had only three colors, the meanings that flowed in this luminous circle reflected in fact a multitude of states.

 

Joyce Stace’s lawyer had arrived shortly after. The night had not been too dipped: the hand was not flirting yet with midnight and a few hours would pass before their meeting, allowing equivocal colleagues to confront each other.

Gavin had spent his time teasing his teammate, calling it with another name to annoy it. The RK900 was unaware of what Gavin’s nonchalance could mean: pride always hid the moods of its partner who refused to be destabilized too long.

The TV screen was the only source of light, exaggerating the contrast of all the shadows in the living room. Posing modest distances, the troubled RK900 took care to sit at the other end of the sofa, the opposite pole.

“Good luck, Robocop.”

“Good luck to you too, detective.”

But after ten minutes, Gavin pressed pause to go get a glass of water, refusing to miss clues since it would be disloyal.

The RK900 remained static, hands on its lap, waiting for his return. When Gavin returned, he put the glass on the coffee table and, to Conrad’s surprise, settled down in the middle of the sofa, his thigh touching the robot’s one.

“You weren’t tempted to cheat?”

“Not at all.”

“Good point for you, personally, I wouldn’t deprive myself.”

The movie started again and the detective, after drinking, leaned against the sofa, his shoulder against the one of an android more and more perplexed. Taking advantage of the place left by his master, Gnocchi came to settle down to wash himself.

The first crime scene had just been discovered by the investigators: woven into the worst fantasies of blackness, the director’s intention of paying homage to _film noir_ was obvious. Conrad watched each sequence, finally cheating by allowing itself freeze frames in its memory, recording each item as it felt Gavin’s arm extend over the back of the couch, just behind its neck.

“Are you trying to distract me, detective?”

“Why? Does it work?” That childish smile again. “Well, I’m flattered I can disrupt the RK900, the most advanced prototype to date.”

“Obviously, it disturbs you too: you’re at ninety-two beats per minute.”

His arm slid over the shoulder of the android, exerting a slight pressure to tilt it forward. A question ran through his head like a hot bullet: _what the fuck am I doing?_ The answer was actually quite clear: he was throwing himself into something delusional, something so new that even the customers of the Eden Club, in search of comfort, would never know.

Conrad noticed a pace of ninety-four beats per minute when Gavin kissed it. Ninety-five when it put its fingers on that neck, going back to the jaw without the slightest desire to kill. Ninety-eight when the lips began to open a little more. Gavin was expecting a different experience, but it was worse than that: he suddenly backed up, startled by a dreadful taste.

“Fuck!” Conrad was lost, watching him get up, “I forgot they had washed you! You taste of dishwashing liquid!”

He had an urgent need to rinse his mouth. Embarrassed, Conrad followed him into the bathroom while apologizing. The android was only reassured when Gavin, after brushing his teeth to remove the detergent taste, burst out laughing.

“Seriously, I didn’t expect it—”

Conrad stepped forward gently, still sorry.

“You gave no answer to my transfer request but— I guess it’s a no?”

“Too bad for you. I told you that you’re going to have a fucking hard time, so your request, you know where to stick it.”

“Detective, I thought we had overcome these hostilities.”

“I never stop them.” Gavin pointed to the shower stall. “Come on, go take a real shower, fake human, out of the question that I’m touching you again as long as you’re covered with this product.”

It was a promise. Full of values for Conrad, more uncertain for Gavin.

When the detective closed the bathroom door, leaning back against the panel, he took out his cell phone and resumed his reading of articles. At thirty-seven, he thought he had left these teenage emotions behind for a long time, but those doubts were reminiscent of those when he first kissed a boy, at a time when same-sex tenderness was still being criticized. The judgments could have rained, Gavin had completely ignored them: skin color or sex, no matter as long as they were consenting humans. But Conrad was not human and Gavin did not know how a machine created to serve perceived the concept of consent.

He looked at the names of the academics, looking at their faces of intellectuals who had certainly been made in CyberLife laboratories. To those smiles a little silly, Gavin returned a grin:

“Yeah, you can be proud but you would be unable to tell me if androids can have a crush. Ten years of study for nothing. I’ve been of service in the police for almost ten years and I get lumbered with an android that fell for me and I don’t know what to do it with it.”

He even laughed frankly at the thought of learning more than these university professors in the space of a few months, trying to get answers by himself.

 

It was the first time it showered like a human being. Water did not pose a risk unless it was submerged in too cold or boiling water. Its hand had long turned the tap, looking for a temperature, but the limited degrees, for safety, did not wake any reaction. Under warm water, the android had applied to clean its face, taking care to get rid of this taste that left it indifferent.

Unless the pleasure that had spread in its circuits had stunned its programs, making them unable to evaluate the stimuli.

Once out, covered in drops, Conrad leaned toward the veiled condensing mirror, trying to do its hair again. Facing its reflection, the android stared at its lips. This mouth too beautiful to remain static. This mouth that had kissed Gavin’s one. It should not be replaced by another. The RK900 would leave no room for any similar. Its own eyes clung to the red LED: different fears gripped its biocomponents. It straightened up, picking up its uniform and its insurance. After all, its creators had aimed for perfection, so he could survive, especially if the detective agreed to support it.

 

The corridor was plunged into darkness, as was the living room, empty. Yet, they had started to see the movie. The night in the corridor was cut by a single curve of light coming from the bedroom. Conrad pushed the door ajar, seeing Gavin lying on his bed, Gnocchi curled up on his stomach. It must have been a while since he was reading on his cell that he quickly hid when the android entered, plating the screen against his chest.

“Do you want to postpone the movie, detective, or do you forfeit?”

“You would be too happy that I give up.”

“I would be especially surprised: you are too proud to give up.”

Gavin was looking at the uniform. This blue band, these figures wisely aligned, the rigidity of the fabric, all these details that reminded the RK900 rather than Conrad annoyed him.

“If you want to sleep then I’ll leave.”

“In fact,” the android froze at this objection. The cat was disturbed in his evening nap when his master sat up, “you could stay, you know? You would still be covered with that household product, it would have been out of the question, but now—”

He invited it to sit beside him, and the machine, following only it own desire, obeyed.

“Did you feel something earlier?”

“I could have complained about the taste of tobacco but I didn’t.”

“Hey! Detergent is dangerous for humans! You don’t care about cigarette, you have no lungs.”

The human doubted that the partners conceived in the CyberLife factories were daring enough to reply on their own with the same frankness as the RK900: they only answered on the authorization of their owner while Conrad made fun of it, ignoring instructions from its partner.

“I’m kidding,” knees one against the other, back straight, the android was unaware of which attitude to adopt. The machine needed to understand before deciding. "”Was it spontaneous or calculated?”

Gavin repeated the question by imitating Conrad, mocking the ever-so-serious robot.

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“Me too, Robocop. A month ago, you could have been dismembered in a shredder the size of a truck, I would have sipped my coffee without reacting. But you’ve changed since then. And I really freaked out when I saw that you lost a leg, even if I knew we could fix you!” He would not venture to speak of a sentimental attachment, certainly not, not when the emotions of the other still raised questions. Still, they had come closer, it was a fact. “And I swear to you that I never imagined kissing a robot one day. It’s so weird.”

“Eighty-three percent of Detroit residents already had sex with an android.”

“Yeah, well, zero percent heard their partner tell them feelings that are developing.”

“The BL100s are programmed to formulate this kind of statement.”

Gavin glared at it:

“Are you going to tell me that you, a RK900 specializing in investigations, was programmed to ask me out? In a CyberLife workshop?”

“No, you’re right: I wasn’t programmed for intimate relationships.” The detective looked down at the android belt, remembering what he had seen earlier. Maybe what it had was only a formality in the end. “What I said earlier comes from me, from what I have become and because I really feel it.”

“Then you see the fucking difference.”

Little by little, deviance had planted its roots. It was not a virus, even if it brought its share of pain: it was a plant carrying electric sparks, both poignant and warm, leaving a form of life to spread, destroying the first projects of the RK900. Today, it wanted to live, to establish itself in this world that had welcomed it. How was it different from humans who were born with surprising probabilities? It too had a chance on 400 quadrillions to be born, that luck that rhymed with a small code error, and it had a chance on millions to love. Some chances had to be seized.

More free than its fellows, the android raised a hand to the man’s cheek, mixing its own warmth with his. The machine needed to touch and evaluate in order to test itself and the human mechanisms in front of it.

“I don’t even know what you can do or can’t.”

“I wasn’t even programmed to feel attracted, so I don’t know what I can do either.”

“And we’re not going to look at each other like two dumbasses all night.”

Every laugh was nervous, but after all, Gavin had begun to explore this terrain, so let’s continue.

“Earlier, at the workshop, I looked at you. Well, I didn’t check you out for hours, it’s just that I wondered what you looked like under your clothes and without your skin, and there I asked myself something—” after an inspiration, he came out with: “Seriously, why did they give you a dick if you aren’t programmed to use it?”

“Why did they give you your driver’s license whe you drive like a madman?’

Gavin pushed it to the shoulder, split between laughter and seriousness. Conrad’s smile did not annoy him.

“Come on, seriously.”

“I don’t know, I never discussed with my creators. But if you have the opportunity, you’ll ask them why they gave me this mouth.”

“I’ve so many questions to ask them— Like your preference criteria.”

“Is it so unlikely to fall for a man so unbearable as you?”

“You’re the last prototype, you could have found better. And then, I thought my rank wasn’t high enough for you?”

“That’s right, but Captain Fowler isn’t really sexy.”

The detective burst into laughter, surprising himself by enjoying this flirtation.

However, the bright white of this jacket annoyed him: the fabric reverberated the light coming from the office, weak but still too strong, and his intentions could only be expressed in the dim light. So Gavin started to erase these clues left by CyberLife: he removed the new jacket and, despising the numbers and the blue armband, all this tackiness from the multimillionaire company, threw it on the floor. His fingers released a few buttons from the android’s shirt, clearing the throat dotted with moles. Why apply on such details if no one could enjoy them? Now that it was rid of this rigidity, Conrad was even attractive.

“I don’t even understand why you’re still dressed,” he grumbled, taking care of the line of buttons.

For the second time, the mouths met, without bad surprise. Gavin felt a slight taste of plastic, curious but logical. He bit into one of those lips and under his teeth, the texture of the gel pinched, which surprised Conrad who recoiled.

“What? You’re afraid I might damage you?”

The android let him brag, unimpressed by his pride. More cautiously, slipping into a new form of violence, the robot imitated this hunger. The absence of a stomach did not prevent it from feeling it. They finally tipped over, disturbing again the cat who was trying to rest. The human was surprised by the fluid movements of the android’s mouth, able to kiss, even appreciating how much the exchange was— really natural.

Gavin put his hand down to feel the vibrations of the thirium pump. In parallel, Conrad slid one hand under the sweatshirt to welcome the dry heartbeat against its palm. Insolent, even now, the robot dared to remove the sweater from its partner, bringing this torso still so fragile against it. The rhythms of the hearts cadenced when the android surrounded its legs around the waist of the human, bringing the bodies closer. Plated on the blanket, Conrad smiled under the kisses, seized with joy and pride as it felt its partner rub his pelvis against its, lighting his excitement as a lighter lights. After all, if Gavin could boast for having awakened feelings in the most successful android, Conrad had against it a man who, a month earlier, hated mechanical creatures.

The caresses lasted, becoming troubles in the half-light. On the twisted waves of the sheet pitched gleams emitted by the blue armband encrusted on the arm of the android.

They heard the ringing of the phone announcing a message from Landru, but neither of them wanted to interrupt the exchange. Under the skin of the stomach, Gavin guessed the silver lines that led the electricity and, like water that leaks contact, the illusion melted under his fingers, revealing for a moment the flesh of the android. He leaned over to see if the effect recurred with his lips, with his tongue, and every sign of affection was recomposed with the same reaction. He loosened the belt of the android, throwing it also to support the contempt for luxury and, with more precaution, began to undo the jeans. When Gavin kneeled at the foot of the bed, Conrad did not move.

It did not know it could have an erection, a reaction it discovered by feeling the caresses that came and went on its sex, the kisses that covered the inside of its thighs. Its lips released no breath, but a reflex drove them to open, perhaps to mimic the movements of Gavin’s ones. Discovering kisses much more intimate and much more exciting, the springs of its joints began to react, relaxing and compressing, hit by a thirium that went crazy, ready to flee its circuits.

Aside from the taste of plastic against his tongue, Gavin noted few differences between a human partner and a machine. And Conrad seemed so human when it arched its back, inspiring a sense of pride. Although he was on his knees, as though submissive to the android, the illusion of domination was broken by the almost complete paralysis of the mechanical body. Irrumatio was born of a blind pride, because it was always the one who sucked who led the dance.

The torso of the android could have stirred, but without breathing, it was the biocomponents that were bumping against the plastic surface. It even dreaded as it body heated up. With a jerky gesture, its hand slid down to its chest and the skin left the circle of the thirium pump in evidence. The robot manipulated the opening to extract its own heart, pulling it out with a jerk, joints always unpredictable.

When he heard Conrad’s arm fall heavily on the mattress, Gavin straightened up and saw the wet indigo component in the android’s hand.

“Conrad? What the fuck are you doing?!”

He grabbed the heart and put it back in place, checking that it was correctly placed. The human did not understand what had happened, much less when he noticed Conrad’s wide smile.

“What were you doing?”

“I was trying to deactivate myself.”

Closed eyelids hid the irises. Gavin grabbed his partner’s wrists and squeezed them against the sheet just above the head of the machine to prevent it from doing it again.

“Why? Do you want me to take you back to CyberLife?”

“I don’t know: I was overheating, my programs responded by calculating it was the safest solution.”

“Dying? _That_ was the safest solution? Don’t you have a cooling system or something?”

“Yes, but it was not working anymore: it was hard to concentrate with what you were doing to me.”

Gavin gradually released his hold, certain that the android was not going to try to turn itself off again. There was no sweat or redness on Conrad’s body, but he was still haunted by an exhausting heat.

“Instead of tearing off your components, next time, warn me when you can’t take any more.”

Without getting rid of its smile, Conrad repeated ‘next time’, raising an eyebrow.

“No, next time doesn’t mean in five minutes, you’ll set fire to my bed otherwise.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Ah, funny: I don’t believe you.”

“No, really.”

Sitting down to the pillows, Gavin pushed the android of the foot so that he had enough room to pull the sheet. Conrad was lying on its side, its components regaining their composure as the echo of a comfortable fatigue.

“I was just noting your implication, nothing more.”

“Well, stop taking me for a fool: I almost made you addicted to blow jobs. But don’t worry: I know that feel so it’s justified, but unlike you, I can get tired.”

Conrad wrapped its arms around Gavin’s knees, appending its head and feelig its partner’s fingers unraveling its hair. Gavin was thoughtful: he wanted to test the limits of the android to finally realize that the RK900 was quite capable of maintaining a romantic relationship. For the first time, Gavin wondered what was the importance of Conrad’s nature. It felt, it was endowed with emotions, it was able to choose and its insolent and free nature canceled what the human had imagined about the androids. What could such a relationship give? His fingers were still stroking Conrad’s hair, enjoying the hug.

“I wasn’t programmed to do that,” admitted the android, “but I know that sexual intercourse involve an exchange.”

“Sexual intercourse,” Gavin sneered, “can’t you talk like everyone else?”

“Sexual relations, then?” The man laughed again as his partner went on: “if you prefer, I can say ‘getting laid’? ‘Making love’ is a bit too early maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Conrad slid its hands from calves to Gavin’s waist, moving the embrace, moving closer. It put its lips on the stomach, feeling the muscles twitch.

“What do you think of ‘affectionate exchanges’?”

“Sounds good,” Gavin sighed as the android’s fingers grazed his hips. He let him undo his pants.

It was one morning that Detective Reed would keep secret.

When the alarm clock rang, he felt tired, drained of the will to get up. Lying on his stomach, he felt that Gnocchi had curled up on his shoulder, and then Conrad’s palm slid down his waist, shaking him slightly to wake him up.

The sheets smelled of sweat. The night had witnessed the most carefree embraces, carried by a modern optimist, but the morning was now drifting on Detroit, putting an end to hopes, remembering the respective natures of the two lovers and the reality.

Gavin Reed cursed after a loud sneeze, forced to wake up. He so fine here, just lying there, close to the android which was radiating a human warmth: why would he face the cold outside? But it was a busy October morning, full with work and they had to get up to finally close this damn case.

“Gavin.”

“Hm?”

“During the night, I was thinking and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re sexually deviant.”

“What?”

“You had a relationship with an informer and now you’re sleeping with work equipment. You have a problem.”

Despite the fatigue, Gavin laughed and slapped it on the thigh, calling it a dick.

Gavin may have been a bit ashamed, but he had not the slightest regret: it had been a long time since he had laughed like that, that he did not feel so relaxed despite the horror of the case they were working on.

He remembered that Landru had sent him a message the day before and when he read it, he handed the phone to his neighbor:

“We’ve the name of two pedophiles thanks to the analyzes, and they’re recidivists.”

At the mention of the job, Conrad rose suddenly, becoming the RK900 again with priority missions.

“Detective, get up.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The android took off the blanket, freeing itself from the cozy embrace of the bed, unaware of how its teammate cursed it. Without waiting for him, Conrad got up and picked up its clothes from the floor.

 

Having Joyce Stace in the interrogation room was a real reward, and this success lightened the atmosphere at the police station. Chris Miller was crying with laughter on his desk because of Tina swaying between the tables, the Pedobear’s theme played on her cell phone, that old meme that reminded all colleagues of old time.

“Conrad,” Officer Chen called, “when we get these pedos, try to hack their cell phone and add it as a ring tone!”

Troops were motivated by the prospect of trapping pimps and some of their clients. Gavin was also laughing, enjoying the atmosphere that gave him a bit of bite for the next interview with Stace. He also appreciated the seriousness of Conrad: the android put some distances without being cold so far, maintaining a cordial relationship between colleagues. They could at least seem friends for other policemen.

Later, once in the dark room, facing the pimp and the lawyer, Detective Reed displayed a hostile attitude. Tina was in the adjoining room, watching the exchange with the RK900. It did not know why Officer Chen had been so friendly lately: was it a conversation with her friend or the fact that the RK900 had seen what the kids had been through? In any case, she tried to be forgiven the past abuse.

The case had turned all the points of view upside down.

“The robot has threatened me!”

Joyce Stace, in spite of the brace which surrounded his neck, had just spit this statement with a fierce anger. He was a man in his thirties with medium-length, blond hair, which had allowed the android to grab him the day before. Even if he knew the truth, Gavin remained impassive.

“What do you mean?”

“He tried to hit me! He pulled my hair and raised his fist!”

“As much for the hair, well, it might be possible, but you were running away. For the fist, I’m not really sure,” the detective dialed a skeptical look, “he’s an android, Stace, maybe he’s a RK900 but like everyone else, he isn’t allowed to hurt humans. It’s against his program.”

“He raised his fist!”

The lawyer was awkwardly silent: his client had no evidence to make, and it was hard to believe, even for him. After all, the RK900 was a robot in the service of the police, it could not be deviant. It was a machine. Nothing more.

“You imply that a machine wanted to hurt you? I don’t understand, Stace: ZK200s can be used to get fucked by old pigs, you don’t give a fuck since they’re just machines that feel nothing, however, a RK900 can be driven by a desire to revenge? That’s what you mean?”

“The ground broke down when he tried to hit me.”

“You’d be dead without the RK900.”

Joyce Stace did not falter: the subject came back for a long time. The detective succeeded in putting an end by asking a fateful question:

“Do you know Fathia El Harbi?”

At the mention of this name, a silence fell. The detective exposed the facts surrounding the death of the prostitute, insisting between the relationship that may exist between the tattoo cut and the horde of children. For many minutes, the pimp uttered no words until he was encouraged by his lawyer who reminded him that confessions would help him in his situation.

“Yes. I knew Fathia.”

“Do you know something about her death?”

“Yes. I know who killed her.”

Gavin clenched his fists, cashing in a name, the long-awaited identity:

“Karl Adelbert.”

Karl and Johann Adelbert were two brothers in their forties, deans of this network and very fond of Red Ice. Five months ago, they had the brilliant idea of extracting money from people who would pay a lot to have sex with a child: for a more modest price, they would have even accepted a machine. Regular income for unemployed people chasing the scarlet dragon.

“I don’t know how Fathia discovered our business, maybe customers told her about it— She intended to stop us but the income was too good to give up. She was too sensitive, I think she even wanted to adopt one of the androids for her. When Karl saw the tattoo, he panicked. He managed to see her one morning, very early. To lure her, he had come with the android, the one she wanted to save, but he was mainly intent on eliminating her. We were afraid of risks and that everything might stop because of her.”

Some memories then became very clear for Gavin: this September morning when the detective was allowed to take his time and Fathia asked him if laws protected androids, the sadness she felt for the ZK200 fallen from the roof, her curiosity as for machines and their ability to feel—

It was not Conrad who gave birth to this consideration: it was this network of children. And too stubborn in his rancor, Gavin had discouraged his friend without knowing it.

“She wanted to adopt one of the children?”

“Yes.”

Gavin needed to go out. He needed to cry.

He had decided to resist when, by chance, Officer Chen entered the room, informing his colleague that they needed to speak. In the corridor, she showed him an email sent by CyberLife to Fowler: the company wanted to pick up the children. All of them.

“Fuck— Well, after all, that’s their domain. We’re not going to keep them anyway.”

“Yeah,” his friend agreed, “especially since we got back this morning the two who were at Christopher’s morgue. They’ll send someone in two hours. Crazy, huh? They don’t delay when they need something, but when _we_ need some help, we can dream on for three months.”

The detective remained pensive before thanking his colleague. He was about to return to his confrontation, but noticed Conrad near the door.

“What’s happening?”

“I’ve to talk to you, about the ZK200s.”

Gavin sighed tiredly but accepted, understanding that he had no choice. Further down the hall, the two partners were talking in a low voice:

“You can’t return these androids to CyberLife.”

“Why not?”

“Because I agree with Dr. Landru: it’s necessary to disable them.”

The RK900 had not yet expressed its opinion on the fate of the martyrs. Its hand grasped its partner to support its request:

“Please, detective. You don’t know what they lived. You don’t know what deviance is.”

This reproach was a reminder of how Gavin had despised his colleague before, depriving it of emotions, assuring that the android could not feel. This time, it was up to the android to point out the ignorance of the human.

“But you’re a deviant yourself, and you don’t want to be disabled.”

“They suffer, detective, and continue to suffer. It’s like more than one deviancy exist and theirs is the most frightful. Mine’s different. You can’t let CyberLife analyze them and keep them that way.”

“Maybe it could help them?”

“I don’t want to take that risk. We don’t know what they’ve planned for them.”

Gavin withdrew his hand, ready to abandon Conrad in this situation: the question of the future of these children was so thorny that the detective did not want to take a decision. He justified himself otherwise:

“If we destroy androids without their agreement, we’ll have a lot of problems.”

“I’m the one making the decision,” Conrad said confidently, surprising the detective, “I’m an android and humans don’t have their word to say. If you don’t help me, then I’ll destroy them alone and by myself.”

“You know you’re really breaking my balls, tin can! You’re asking me something that I can’t do.” The RK900 was staring at him: if Connor had tender doe eyes, Conrad’s ones were good at destabilizing. “Fuck. You’re really going to drive me crazy.”

“Then I’m giving you as good as you get.”

Gavin had hated machines for a long time to gradually change his mind thanks to Conrad. But today, he could certify it: the deviants were really the worst.

 

Tina had taken over the interrogation: Gavin had asked her for this service without stating the reasons. In the room, the thirty-two children were lined up, all wearing emergency blankets.

“What do you want to do? They’ll never get in my car all together.”

The detective had thought to bring the children back to the abandoned barn and claim they had returned to the scene to discover the ZK200s in a vandal-prone state. But elements would be incoherent and the lie would have crumbled very quickly. Conrad had another solution:

“I intend to destroy them here.”

“What?!”

“Deviant androids have a tendency to self-destruction, CyberLife knows it: abandoned and anxious here, androids poorly supervised can commit suicide.”

Gavin was afraid to understand:

“Are you going to hit them to destroy them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sick! You’re fucking sick!”

Conrad already knew it.

The windowless room, so cumbersome and heavy, would be an ugly tomb for these children.

The android put its hands on the cheeks of its partner.

“I need support, detective. I’ve no desire to do what I’m going to do, but the CyberLife representative arrives in an hour and thirty-six minutes. There’s no other solution. So I really need you to be there with me.”

Gavin looked at the children in turn, feeling the tears strangling him again.

“I don’t even know which one Fathia wanted to save—”

“I can try to make an estimate. If Karl Adelbert had come with the ZK200, that explains the presence of gel under the fingernails: miss El Harbi surely may have tried to catch the child before being killed.”

With gentle gestures, those that would precede the violent blows, the RK900 inspected each arm. Leaning against the wall, the detective was still struggling against the wave of sadness that was still rising and rising.

“This one, detective.”

Gavin straightened his face and looked at the child. It looks like a little boy who must have been barely eight years old, its round face crowned with black curls. The eyelids hid the color of its eyes. When he saw the android for whom Fathia had been killed, the man began to cry, unable to hold back those tears any longer. And as on the crime scene, a few days ago that seemed like an eternity, Conrad invited its partner to snuggle against it.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the assurance wavered, but Gavin locked the access to the room with his badge, “go ahead, Conrad. You can disable them.”

There was only one hour and seventeen minutes before the CyberLife representative arrived: it would take two good minutes to destroy each android to mimic a scene of mechanical suicide. Time was passing by.

Under the scared look of the detective, the RK900 grabbed the head of a first child and tipped it forward, breaking its forehead, annihilating everything the machine had seen, heard, felt, lived. The sound of the cracking plastic was dry. The thirium began to flow, bearing the metallic smell that the detective knew already.

At the end of the fourth android destroyed, the RK900 began to cry without noticing it. It did not know that its creators had given it lacrimal glands, giving it the opportunity to express sorrow. Since it did not need to breathe, no sob was strangling it, but tears continued to run down its nose, falling into the indigo puddles of its victims.

These children too had the chance to be born in this cruel world. In their waking state, they knew nothing but pain. Worse, the memories of their loving family may have given rise to a taste for treason.

The adult android had made its choice: it was a chance to be born alongside a human like Gavin, it was a chance to die to forget the torment that made up their tiny life.

There were only three androids, still off. The violence of the RK900 was running out of steam, motivated by hatred for missing culprits: it could not feed on these small bodies.

When its hands landed around the neck of the last ZK200, Conrad felt its joints block. Its programs forced, countered by others who refused to destroy this last child.

Conrad felt Gavin put his arms around its chest, gently pushing it away. When the partners were far enough away, the detective unsheathed and fired twice in the skull so small, piercing the hull.

They would say that the robot had become dangerous and they had to eliminate it.

The moment had emptied them, letting them cry against each other. Gavin mingled his fingers with Conrad’s ones, assuring it that he was present, that he was here for it. He had no confidence in CyberLife and if Conrad had managed to get out of its program, then its solution was perhaps the most preferable.

“Come on, we have ten minutes to stop looking like death warmed over.”

But before leaving the room, Conrad knelt down and retrieved the thirium pump from the child loved by Fathia. It knew it would need this heart to pay tribute to the young woman who would soon be buried.


	8. Partners

There is a touching solidarity within the police. Policemen were human beings who had affinities, of course, but camaraderie always swept the subjectivity: to cope with the hatred of the uniform and the grueling daily, the police station of Detroit counted welded teams, always voluntary to help each other.

Then Tina Chen had agreed to replace Gavin for the interrogation. The lawyer had not looked on this change with a favorable eye, but the officer did not care. Her young age did not prevent her from extracting information on the traffic organized by Joyce Stace and the Adelbert brothers. The irony was that the men were in favor for the chemical castration, maybe even the hanging by the testicles, but if these freaks were calming down on machines and there was enough money to earn, the ideals of this trio then adapted to vices. They would never see where the harm was in the chain they had launched, like a large part of the Detroit population, but they could betray some clients to ease the sentences. And the case would be tricky to bring to court if there were no human children involved, but at least the Fathia killer would be brought up for immediate trial.

Chris Miller also agreed to play along when Gavin Reed told him at the end of a hallway that the kids had self-destructed. The detective said that he had to shoot down the last ZK200, which had become completely crazy. The coincidences seemed odd to Chris, but he remembered the deviant android that stabbed its owner and smashed its own head against the interrogation room table last year, so he did not ask any questions. But half-heartedly, he murmured:

“Poor kids— maybe that’s better for them.”

The policeman had never condemned the suicidal gesture, because this desperate act carried a personal and private pain, inaccessible to others. Even the machines had the right to give up: no one would support them in this world, the compassionate tears of the police would not bring them anything, and the CyberLife labs would not have comforted them.

Yes, even if that decision had hurt him, Gavin did not regret having followed his partner. But they needed time to recover, so while Chris Miller, on the ground floor, greeted the CyberLife representative and apologized, the detective and the RK900 were resting for a few more moments upstairs. In this room so narrow, they were sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the cold walls without shudder: against each other, they were ignoring the cool plaster varnish. The nascent character of the RK900 was also accompanied by habits that put down roots, such as to hide its face near Gavin’s neck, adoring this scent of cedar. Under the gray light, Gavin was exhausted, insensitive to the rain that hit the window. He clutched the android against him, remembering how those cold eyes had shed tears: no suffocation, no sigh, the tears had passed without any other sign of sadness. But for an android, it was already a lot. And each time he heard the sound of plastic bursts, Gavin tightened his embrace.

“Why do deviants commit suicide so easily?”

“Because emotions scare us. It’s frightening to lose control when you’re used to control everything.”

The answer was both logical and terrifying.

“Have you ever thought about self-destructing yourself?”

“Not by myself: at first, I knew that I had to be disabled if I didn’t obey my priority functions anymore. But I never thought of self-destruct myself.” Conrad straightened its face to gaze at Gavin. “Unlike the ZK200s, detective, I became deviant thanks to several emotions. They became deviant because they only knew fear and disgust.”

Despite its short existence, Conrad came to believe that there may be several forms of deviance: the RK200 Markus had not shed blood and showed no sign of violence in leading its revolution, contradicting the unpredictability of the deviants relayed by the media. Conrad did not know how to explain this peaceful choice, but it proved that deviances were declined in several attitudes.

“If you weren’t present or if you were wicked, maybe I would have killed myself. But you’re present and I’ve no desire to disappear.”

“Finally, we aren’t really different,” admitted Gavin, “I never thought of committing suicide. But with all that happened, if you hadn’t been there, I might have reconsidered the option.” Sometimes he really wondered how he was doing to manage to survive. “Or I just really want to break everyone’s balls before my last bow.”

Conrad allowed itself to laugh, approving that purpose of life. It wondered if an existence was necessarily associated with a goal or whether it could let itself be carried into its future, hosting simple events, such as solving inquiries and falling in love with Gavin. Carelessness, however, troubled by waves of doubt, and the android feared that these simple swirls become devastating waves, even alongside Gavin.

“Come on, if we stay here for too long, it’ll really become suspicious.”

 

One knee on the ground, the assistant sent by CyberLife looked at the broken bodies lying around him. It would be a hell of a mess to clean. With a gloved hand, he released some pieces of plastic but the components were totally destroyed. With a frown, the spokesperson wondered how the ZK200s could have been destroyed as well. The instinct of madness perhaps, the desire to die. The last one had two bullets in the skull.

“When we got there, he was the last on,” Miller lied, “we had to disable him that way because he became dangerous.”

“Who turned it off?”

Detective Reed arrived at that time, closely followed by the RK900. The android would have liked to identify as guilty but its partner spoke before:

“I did it. We should have been waiting for you, but since last year, we’ve been a little suspicious of deviants.”

The representative welcomed this explanation with a nod. Of a modest size and hard features, Gavin realized afterwards that the man was a woman in fact. The dark-colored tailor mingled with the black skin and the severe mouth supported an ebony gaze. The shaved head and the absence of makeup gave a special look to this woman too strict. The only fantasy lay in the shimmering green scarf tied around her neck. She took off one of the gloves and reached to greet the detective.

“Professor Adanna Bontu.”

“Detective Gavin Reed,” the policeman noticed the many bracelets under her sleeve. He wondered if these colorful details concealed under the uniform were a reflection of her personality. In any case, she did not try to answer his sly smile, keeping a closed face.

“It’s a shame to find the ZK200s in this state. Nobody had thought to turn them off before putting them in the room with convictions?”

“We’re police officers, Professor Bontu, not technicians. And we don’t count any enthusiasts for your company in the team, so we didn’t check if your androids were off or not.”

Adanna Bontu stared at the RK900 behind and a first grin appeared.

“Does your new leg work properly, Conrad?”

Of course: Conrad was the only RK900 and the android Chloe had recorded their visit, the link was obvious. Gavin felt like he was dealing with possessive parents and did not like that welcoming tone, wondering what it was hiding. The robot kept a mechanical calm and it politely confirmed:

“Everything works perfectly since the repairs.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

The representative turned her attention to the detective, the tip of the index finger tapping the commissure of the lips:

“All the formalities had been completed but you didn’t answer the satisfaction survey. Conrad’s a new prototype and you’re his only partner: your answers are important to us.”

Gavin felt he could not escape. He invited the professor to follow him down the hall to get to the surface of the police station: the sight of these children was becoming too difficult. While walking, the representative pointed out that Gavin’s rank was lower than the one to which the RK900 was to be awarded.

“That would explain that the experience isn’t satisfactory.”

 _In fact, your prototype perfectly understood the mechanism of blow-job and managed to reproduce it the first time, so the experience is downright satisfactory_ , but it was an answer that the detective had to keep for him. Unfortunately, because it would have been funny

“The fact that I’m _only_ a detective isn’t a problem: I work very well with your prototype, the proof being that we’re dismantling a network of pedophiles. Besides, if you want a frank opinion: he’s much better than his predecessor.”

A compliment that touched Conrad, but in the presence of Adanna, it had to remain insensitive.

“The RK800’s social program was a total failure,” said the CyberLife spokesperson, “we’ve started from scratch for the RK900. It was a risk, that said.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you noticed any problem with the RK900?”

“Apart from the leg he lost?”

“In its personality and its reactions.”

Gavin kept his calm: betraying Conrad, it was sending it to be recycled. To destroy this RK900 was to kill the deviant who wanted to exist. To separate from this android was to lose a reassuring presence. The question sounded like a trap and the secrets made him paranoid.

“No. What exactly are you thinking of? I’m not a technician, you know, so when he has a bug, I don’t know all the impact that it can have.”

“I was thinking of reactions that might reflect emotions.”

“I didn’t notice anything: he’s a machine, the concept of emotions must be abstract, right?”

The woman sighed, lowering her face.

“So the RK900 too is a failure—”

Gavin jumped: this statement sounded like a death sentence.

“No! I meant that he couldn’t feel, but his social program simulates emotions.”

“It works well,” confirmed Chris Miller who was behind, following this clumsy exchange. “He adapts to situations perfectly: he doesn’t smile on a crime scene, for example, only when he listens to the jokes of one of our officers.”

Conrad kept a peaceful attitude, as deaf to the exchanges that concerned it. Like Gavin, it did not know the purpose of these questions: its social program had developed beyond what was planned. Its reactions and expressions were no longer analyzes of situations: they were spontaneous and honest. And the representative of CyberLife just watched her attitude.

“Then, are you satisfied with the RK900?”

Chris and Gavin confirmed at the same time.

Chris Miller was perhaps one of the few policemen who had not harbored a visceral hatred of androids despite the tragedy with Lieutenant Anderson. Especially since he remembered the android that had spared him one snowy night: the leader named Markus had calmed the anger of its fellows and had been lenient with the young father, saving his life. So when Hank had committed suicide, Chris had mostly felt sorry and did not think about the role of the RK800. If there was a police officer who had not participated, even less approved the persecution of the RK900, it was Chris Miller. Fleeing conflict, advised by his shyness, the young man had kept his support for androids secret. With the ZK200s case, Detroit was going to change and Chris would be there to help the robots, starting with Conrad.

“I don’t work with the RK900, but I’ve never heard Detective Reed complaining.”

Gavin had to recognize that point.

Adanna Bontu was putting away the gloves, satisfied with these impressions:

“No need to replace your partner, then?”

“No, I keep this one.”

There was no doubt in this answer and the envoy gave him a small smile. From her bag, she pulled out a small gray card with the CyberLife logo, which included a phone number and an email address.

“If you’ve any problem with this model, don’t hesitate to contact us.”

Since he had no choice but to accept the small plastic rectangle, Gavin thanked the teacher with haste as she left the room. Once cleared of her presence, Chris approached slowly:

“I hope you explain to me what happened in this room one day, Gavin.”

“Don’t worry, Chris,” assured the colleague, grateful, “and thank you, without you, we’d be in deep shit.”

“At your service, to you and Conrad.”

 

Despite the pressure, the events unfolded smoothly, arranging the duo. The ZK200 would no longer have to suffer the evil of men and Tina had drawn up a list of names: the promise of anonymity had convinced Joyce Stace to reveal the identity of about fifteen customers. Detective Reed’s team would carry out the searches to hand over the case to the Youth Crime Squad, but Fathia’s murder remained in the line of duty and Gavin hoped to gather all the elements to make the sentence as heavy as possible.

Of course, the Adelbert brothers did not know that the prostitute had been working with the police for a year. The hate of the police station was palpable at their arrival and despite the presence of lawyers, the detective and his colleagues did not spare the pimps become murderers: if Karl had pressed the trigger, Johann had cut the tattoo that could betray them. What did they do about this piece of skin? They had thrown it into a trash can several blocks away. A lack of respect made Gavin furious.

Two weeks were necessary to complete all the searches. The teams had returned home guts, looking for signs of guilt, and the evidence was accumulating, further disgusting the police. They complained to colleagues who should analyze the child porn videos found, unable to feel happy to have found these elements. The Pedobear’s music was not so funny when the bear became real and had a human face.

In these troubles, some colleagues wondered why the RK900 always came back home with its teammate. Details of the case remained to be settled, but everyone was worried that the detective brings too much work home, when in fact the android, just like its teammate, forgot for the evening its role of investigator.

Once the front door closed, there was no prototype or detective. The day was forgotten in favor of the night already installed and the coldness hitting on the windows, unable to touch this strange duet. Gnocchi always welcomed them with a tenderness of worshiper: the fingers in his thick fur, the two partners forgot their daily, spoiling the glad feline friend. The cat was also a pretext to allow the hands to touch, because each contact was still a test for Gavin’s pride and Conrad’s clumsiness. However, gentleness was established and asserted itself with each approach: the hostility and mistrust had disappeared.

During their postponed evening, when Gavin found the criminal before his partner, the detective’s laughter showed no contempt. Leaning against the shoulder of the android, letting the credits scroll, he teased it until Conrad insisted:

“This isn’t logical! The clues didn’t point to the victim’s brother but her husband.”

“You’re too influenced by statistics that the spouse is often guilty.”

“How did you find it was the brother?”

The darkness of the show facilitated the initiatives: the android placed its hand on Gavin’s thigh.

“We call it talent, tin can,” if the RK900 could not laugh, its amusement was expressed at least through smiles wider and wider, silent compared to the bursts of laugh of his partner. As long as it was sensitive to his humor, Gavin did not ask for more.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s because you thought as if it was a real investigation: it’s fiction, it was more noticeable if it was her brother instead of the husband, who would have been a culprit too common by the way. You must imagine the most surprising for the viewer.”

The RK900 had thought like a machine, rigid logic and down-to-earth. Although deviant, daydreams and the need for fanciful still escaped it, and perhaps they would escape it forever. This thought worried it.

“Why are you shooting such a face? You’re a bad loser?”

“No,” its LED was red, and to hide it, the android turned its head, “I was wondering if my nature was a problem. I’m a machine and some things will never change: logic, limited emotions— I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t have family or personal friends, and most places like bars or movie theaters are forbidden to androids.”

Conrad approached the source of its partner’s doubts: the barriers that would stand between them.

In spite of homebody periods, Gavin loved going out: living in Detroit meant living with the city and enjoying everything it offered. With an android, he could forget about restaurants, weekend trips, movies, presentations with his mother— If its teammate had been human, the detective would not hesitate to send a text the first morning to Tina to say ‘ _hey! I made out with the hottie of the team!_ ’, he would have slapped this butt at the police station to laugh or kiss him without worrying about his colleagues, he would have held his hand in the street, would have disputed about the evening menu or the destination of the next vacation. Sushi or pizza, mountain or sea, horror film or comedy— these were choices that did not represent anything for the android that could not participate in these small punctualities of life. Small but so human.

With a curious reflex, Gavin hugged the android against him and, as usual, tried to joke:

“You could have thought about it before telling me that you had a crush on me.”

“Because I was convinced that you were going to reject me. I calculated the probabilities and they were ninety-nine percent. I admit that the remaining percent left me hopeful, but the odds were tiny.”

“If I had rejected you, you wouldn’t have insisted?”

Gavin was surprised: the RK900, however, showed an iron will, as stubborn as a bloodhound obsessed with his target. But the answer was unsure while the android recalculated the probabilities.

“No, because I can’t fight against logic, and there is nothing more illogical than the affective relationships between humans and androids. Rejecting me would have been justified. But you’ve decided otherwise when you should have thought about it too.”

“And now, I’m given a roasting!”

“No,” Gavin was about to move away, so Conrad held him back, “I’m still a machine and I need information, to know what you want or plan to do. I’ve so many questions to ask but I don’t know if I’ve the right to do so or if you’ll even agree to answer.” In the end, whether between the same species or not, relationships always stumbled over doubts at the beginning. Understanding this state of trouble, Gavin was ready to listen to it, feeling also the need to take stock:

“What do you want to know? I don’t know if I’ve the answers, but we can try.”

“Are you like that with me because you need comfort right now?”

“I’m not going to lie: having a heating speaking machine is nice,” honest and casual, the man did not want to be hurtful, “for all that, I don’t fall for the first person who comes along. And before you ask me: yes, you and Fathia are different.”

“You continue to invite me, to touch me, does that mean that we’re together?”

Wow, the machines were able to ask questions with a brutality that did not bother with qualms! Gavin understood that he should get used to these direct ways.

“I don’t know. Hey, don’t worry: even between humans, it always takes a long time to decide!”

“Decide because I’m a machine?”

“Are you going to spit that reproach every hour? You think I don’t wonder why you fell for me while there’re other androids at the police station?”

The tone had begun to rise so they stopped at the same time, recovering. More gently, Conrad confessed:

“I started to feel what’s so commonplace for humans, but for a machine, it’s really impressive. I think that’s why I got closer to you, to your humanity. And because you’re well done.”

“What?”

“If you were an android, I would say that your creators have put efforts to your body. Even if you are a little skinny right now.”

Gavin burst out laughing, feeling that the tensions were disappearing:

“Okay, that’s the shittiest compliment ever heard!”

“I really think others are more ridiculous.”

“Finally, I understand what you mean: to be honest, the fact that you’re a machine bothers me, but at the same time, that’s what intrigues me and I think— that I might even like it. I can’t stand monotony and I’m quite curious in a way.”

The comfort was too thin. Conrad reassured itself that they just needed time. Still, it wondered how many decades had to pass before androids were free to love. If only the world could be summed up in this little dark room where the fingers could knot and the mouths kiss. No judgment, no question: the mind and the silent programs free to let the gestures express themselves.

The murmurs of the television made a background noise, ignored by the two lovers, but a powerful voice surprised them and they turned to the screen at the same time: Mark Spencer, a politician very committed to the rights of androids, gave a virulent speech. The ZK200s case had shaken the state and Spencer had found a golden subject to repeat his message: androids had to be protected by laws and to acquire their own civic status. In the current situation, robots who were victims of abuse could not complain on their own.

Gavin remembered the claims of last year’s deviants and got ready to ask Conrad what it was thinking when his partner, lying on top of him, suddenly straightened up:

“Gavin, I need to charge myself.”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever had an android? Sometimes we need to go into power-saving mode and plug in.”

“Are you going to update?”

“Yes.”

“Will you stay the same?”

The innocent question touched Conrad who ran a hand over his forehead to sweep the brown locks:

“Of course, I would rather discharge myself completely than become someone else.”

Gavin was very puzzled when he saw the android remove its shirt and turn its skin off: under the heart, it removed a compartment to grab a cable as thin as a rod. Barely long, it still reached the outlet behind the sofa.

“You know, Robocop, I’ll never apologize for everything I did to you at the beginning,” intrigued, the machine frowned, “in a way, it thanks to my stupid mood that you’ve become like that.”

“It’s true. But you shouldn’t be that proud.”

They laughed.

“You can lie down on me if you want.”

“I’ll be connected all night.”

“When I go to sleep, I’ll be careful to not disturb you. You’re not that heavy, don’t worry.”

Taking advantage of the invitation, Conrad lay on Gavin, its back marrying the man’s stomach, its head on his shoulder. With its face turned towards the screen, it perceived Mark Spencer’s last words while feeling Gavin’s hand touching his stomach, when suddenly it laughed silently:

“You’ve an erection.”

“It’s just a physical reaction! And I thought you were sleeping?”

“It’s in process.”

And before its vision went black, Conrad grabbed Gavin’s hand and held it against it, recording the contact.

 

Another trial was waiting for Gavin after the arrests deprived of joy: Fathia’s funeral. Standing in front of his closet, he was looking for white clothes to respect Muslim traditions.

“Can I come with you, detective?”

The man had a shirt on his arm and searched to find white pants, usually reserved for the summer, but the request of the robot stopped him:

“I don’t know, Conrad—Women have to pass after men, so I don’t know where the androids are in the order of passage.”

“Then I’ll wait outside and I’ll be discreet.”

 

Single android, the presence of the RK900 was quickly noticed outside the Muslim square. Only the jacket of the android was associated with the requirements of funerary rites, not having other clothes. Many policemen were present. In fact, there were more police members than family who refused to pay tribute to the prostitute. Conrad was watching them, these wrapped silhouettes that were coming towards the mortuary and were leaving very quickly for the most part.

Before Gavin moved away to the still open coffin, the android grabbed his arm and discreetly passed the blue heart.

“What—”

“It comes from the child Miss El Harbi wanted to adopt.”

Gavin understood the intention: to bury this part of the mechanical child with the mother could not save it. His fingers came around Conrad’s wrist, pressing him gratefully before taking the thirium pump.

“Thanks, Conrad.”

Not being able to cross the entrance, the android then watched its partner move towards the coffin, performing this gesture of tenderness.

The damaged fringe had been removed from the forehead covered with make-up. The long-sleeved dress hid the missing piece of skin and the old scars. All these details, Fathia left them behind her.

Regardless of the look or the customs, only of the friendship he had for this young woman, Gavin caressed her cheek. With a discreet gesture, he placed the heart of the ZK200 close to the arm, concealing it with the white fabric. Leaning, he tried to speak but had to go back several times to finally murmur:

“I’m so sorry, Fathia. I promise you I won’t be so stupid in the future,” and with that talent to be flippant even now, Gavin added, “I think from where you look, you know I’ll keep my promise. And you were right for Conrad: he would be so popular at the Eden Club, but I keep him for myself.”

He did not need to watch Fathia’s face: he knew that if she could, she would have laughed kindly, true to herself as well.

 

Tina nudged Chris: she had pretended to have found a hilarious video to be able to whisper with her colleague. From their seats, they watched Detective Reed come up, called by Fowler, and Conrad followed its partner. The discussion concerned it, after all.

“You think they’re going to send the android back?”

Chris shook his head:

“No, I don’t think so, but as Aubrey’s back, maybe Gavin won’t work with the RK900 anymore.”

The android had no decision to make, but he had a long talk with its partner the day before and Gavin had no intention of transferring it to another colleague.

Determined, the detective took his place in front of his captain. Jeffrey Fowler often shouted, whether for a small blunder or a huge professional misconduct, but he also knew how to congratulate his men when they deserved it, so while maintaining a military stoicism, he says:

“Before we talk about the android, my congratulations, Reed: it’s far from over and we’ve to wait for the judges to deliver their verdict, but you handled the case really well.” Without concealing a proud smile, Gavin welcomed the compliment. “You applied for the rank of sergeant and for now, the applications are still reviewed, but you’re in the lead. Just keep the good work.”

Fowler then pointed to the android:

“Now, the heart of the matter. I’ve a contract with CyberLife about the android and they ask that I’ve to assign it to a lieutenant so that the functions can be fully exploited.”

“Yeah, their spokesperson made me understand it by the way.”

“Between us, you know that I don’t care: as long as the job’s done, the place of the android doesn’t interest me. Aubrey’s back but I doubt she agrees to work with the RK900. So I let you make the decision and CyberLife can go fuck themselves if you still want to keep it: it’s my police station, damn, not one of their shops.”

Not so long ago, Gavin told Tina that he would decide the fate of the RK900 with Fowler, sending it back to the workshop if the programs had not stabilized or keeping it in the closet or elsewhere. But things had changed: Conrad and he had already watched four movies together, spent a whole evening on the balcony despite the cold to criticize the horizon of Detroit, not to mention that the nights when the android came to lie with him were more and more frequent. The RK900 began to fit into his life, finding its place.

It did not even need to look at its partner who heard his smile in his answer:

“Of course I keep him with me.”

* * *

 Okay, I'm going be honest: I was very skeptical toward Reed900 at first. The RK900 is visible like 3 seconds IG and Gavin is just the ass-hole so the player will automatically be on Connor's side. Thanks to fanarts by talented artists, I finally saw the potential and fell in love with these two.  
I really enjoyed writing this first story and I hope your reading was pleasant too and that you'll read the next fics as some answers are missing.

Even if I was motivated to write and translate this fic all by myself, comments are always important. Without them, I might have just give-up and keep this story for myself, not taking the time to translate.  
So, a lot of thanks to Hogar, Elyxen, Zopheliah and poofic for all the warm support ♥  
On the French version, I want to thank Kujotaro, but also on FanFiction.net where I met a golden public with Guest, error-Ra9, Gueezmo, Enelica, Miss Mary Rose, Leana Nas and ifaw.

To all those person who know comments are the true way to thank a writer, THANK YOU. This first story is complete because of you and I'll keep writing for you.


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